


After the End

by AmyPond45



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bottom!Sam, Dark, Dean taking care of Sam, Demon!Dean, First Time, Humor, M/M, Mentions of rape and torture, Romance, Schmoop, Season 10 AU, Sibling Incest, Spoilers for season 9 finale, Top!Sam, Unrequited Destiel, Wincest - Freeform, bottom!Dean, possible Sastiel - Freeform, season 9 finale, top!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-03 02:22:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1727609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmyPond45/pseuds/AmyPond45
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean disappeared the night of his death. Sam's alone in the bunker, researching ways to bring Dean back, when a certain handsome devil shows up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Hey, Sammy."

Sam wakes with a start. He's fallen asleep on the library table again, on top of his laptop. His body is stiff, his shirt soaked with the booze he spilled hours ago. He can smell himself, and he reeks. He's a crumpled, sweaty, boozy mess who hasn't showered or changed clothes in days, much less slept in a bed.

And the last time he ate? The hollow feeling in his belly tells him it's been a few days since that too.

But nothing matters anymore, 'cause -- there he is.

Leaning in the doorway, wearing a tight black tee-shirt and tight jeans, barefooted and smelling like he just stepped out of the shower, hair damp and perfect, crossed arms looking tan and strong and lacking any scars -- how can all the scars be gone like that? -- smirk firmly planted on those insanely full lips --

Dean.

For a minute, Sam just stares. He thinks he's dreaming. He thinks Dean isn't real.

Until he speaks again.

"It's me, Sam," he says, smiling a little, loosening his arms and taking a step into the room, and Sam can see the insides of his arms, the smooth skin -- no scars there either. "I'm back. Took me awhile, but I think I've got this thing figured out."

Dean reaches up and rubs the back of his neck, a gesture so familiar it makes Sam's chest ache.

He's on his feet and crossing the room before he knows what he's doing, sweeping Dean into his arms before he can think, holding him close, tears streaming down his face.

"Jesus, Dean," Sam sobs. "Thought you were gone for good, man. Thought this was it."

"I know," Dean murmurs, stroking circles on Sam's back, pressing his face against Sam's scruffy cheek. "Had to get some shit together. Didn't want you seein' me like I was. Needed to fix some shit first. It's ok now. It's ok."

Sam can't let go, can't release the man who's meant everything to him since he was old enough to understand how much he loves him. Pressed close like this, Sam can feel every muscle, his brother's body warm and strong and alive, smelling like citrus shampoo and soap and aftershave and Dean, with only the faintest hint of --

Sam pulls back suddenly, releasing Dean like he's been yanked off by some physical force. He stumbles backwards, staring, watching as Dean recovers smoothly, letting his arms lower to his sides, his chin drop so that his eyes are hooded as his eyebrows go up, his lips curve up into that knowing smile again.

"What the hell happened to you?" Sam growls, and now the scent of sulphur is stronger and Sam wonders why he didn't smell it before.

Of course it isn't easy to smell anything over his own noxious odor. Reason to shower more often Number One: so one can tell when one's brother smells like Hell. Literally.

"It's ok, Sammy," Dean says gently, carefully. "I'm still me."

"Yeah?" Sam challenges, gesturing at Dean's smooth, scar-less arms. "All your scars healed? Old bone-breaks too, I'm guessing?"

Dean raises his hands, palms up.

"It's me, Sam," he says. "Just new and improved, is all. Up here?" he taps his temple lightly, "Old grapefruit's just the same. Maybe a little clearer now without all the concussions."

Sam shakes his head.

"You can't lie to me, Dean," he says. "I've been to Hell, remember? Spent over a hundred years there. How long were you there this time, Dean? What's it done to you this time? Besides healing your body? You still have your soul? Huh?"

Dean lowers his eyes then, and Sam knows he's right. Knows he's hit the thing square on the nose.

Fuck.

Sam sinks down onto his chair, has his face in his hands, slumps over with his elbows on his knees. He's still crying a little, chest heaving with pain, wrecked by this new revelation, coming so closely on the heels of his joy over Dean's resurrection.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"Sam," Dean's voice is low, soft, a kind of sigh or a prayer, and it makes Sam moan with despair.

"I need you to try to accept this, Sam," Dean tries again. "You of all people should know that when these things happen, it's not always a bad thing. Sometimes good can come out of evil."

Sam scrubs his face, looks up at his brother -- or the thing that used to be his brother -- knowing he can't kill this, knowing he won't. He'll listen. He'll give this creature his attention, do his best to make sense of what's happened, to eventually accept it.

Maybe even learn to love this dark version of Dean who stands before him now, looking like sin and smelling like Hell.

Because Sam doesn't have it in him anymore to resist Dean or to stand up to him. Not anymore. Not after all they've been through together.

And Dean can see it, the resignation and surrender in Sam's face, knows his brother better than anyone and can just read him like a book.

Dean smiles again and Sam watches the little crinkly lines form on the edges of his beautiful green eyes as he nods.

"So what'd'ya say, Sam?" Dean asks, because he's not gonna presume, not gonna take what he wants if it's not given freely, and Sam knows that. "Are we good?"

Sam runs his hands through his greasy hair, takes a long, shuddering breath.

"I don't know, Dean," he mutters, mostly for himself, so he doesn't feel like a total push-over in this. "It's gonna take some getting used to."

Dean nods, regains his serious expression again, looks thoughtful and in control, like an older brother should.

"I can live with that," Dean says.

"I mean, you're a demon now, is that it?" Sam's terrified to hear the words spoken out-loud, but he has to -- he just has to know.

Dean shifts uncomfortably, keeps his eyes lowered.

"Not exactly," he admits. "More like a kind of demon master. Like a sith lord without the cheesy tattoos."

"Huh," Sam nods, pretending not to notice the bile rising in the back of his throat. "And there are powers, I'm thinkin'? You've got mojo now."

"Oh yeah," Dean brightens, looking suddenly like a kid on Christmas morning.

Which is so creepy it makes Sam cringe, which Dean notices so he tamps down on his excitement, lowering his eyes again.

"I can do some cool stuff," he shrugs, chastened.

Sam closes his eyes, counts to ten, opens them again.

Dean's still there, smiling a little, hopeful look in his eyes.

"I can control it," Dean tries again. "I don't need to use it, like before. It's something I can control now. I was too weak when I was human. But now that I -- Come on, Sam, you gotta see what an advantage this will be. I can be a better hunter than I was before. You and me -- we can be a better team. I'm not a liability anymore. I can't get hurt."

He takes a step closer, and Sam can almost feel his heat.

He tries not to shiver.

"I can keep us safe, Sammy," Dean says with great sincerity, like it's the most amazing and wonderful thing. "We can still do our jobs, just better now. We don't have to worry about the other one all the time. I can keep us both safe."

Sam closes his eyes again, but the tears squeeze out anyway, slide down his already-damp cheeks and drip off the end of his nose.

"Sam," Dean breathes, and Sam swears there's compassion in that deep voice, although he's pretty sure demons don't feel compassion. Or love, although he could swear there's that in Dean's voice too.

Sam wipes the back of his hand across his eyes, blinks up at Dean wearily.

"You know I should kill you right now," Sam says.

A fleeting look of pain crosses Dean's face, then he lowers his eyes and nods.

"I know," he murmurs. "But you won't."

Sam shakes his head, lowers his eyes again.

"No, I won't," he agrees. He huffs out a bitter laugh, and Dean takes another step closer, so that he's right in front of Sam, right between his knees. Sam tenses, then feels Dean's hand on his head, fingering the limp strands of hair.

"How long since you've slept, Sam?" Dean asks quietly. "Or had something to eat?"

Sam shrugs, puts his face in his hands, feeling suddenly bone tired.

Dean touches Sam's hand, and Sam raises his head, looks up at his brother blearily.

"Come on," Dean coaxes, slipping his hand firmly into Sam's and tugging.

Sam rises obediently to his feet, lets Dean lead him down the hall to the bathroom, stands there as Dean turns on the shower, tests the water temperature, finds clean towels and lays them out.

"Now you clean yourself up," Dean tells him. "I'm gonna go fix you something to eat."

Dean turns to go then, but Sam grabs his wrist, pulls him back in for a fierce hug, ignoring the sulphur so he can just feel his brother's body along the length of his own.

"I'm gonna fix you. If it kills me, Dean, I'm gonna fix you."

Dean lets himself be hugged tightly for another moment, then gently disengages.

"Ok, tiger," he smiles up at Sam, which brings more tears to Sam's eyes because Dean looks so young suddenly, so hopeful and eager and new at everything again. "Let's just get you cleaned up and fed first. Then we'll worry about the fixing thing."

And Sam nods because it's Dean, his big brother, taking care of him as usual. And he just wants everything back the way it was, before all this began. Wants it more than life itself or, at the moment, than any miracle that could save his brother from whatever it is that's happened to him.

There'll be time to figure that out later, now that Dean's back.


	2. Chapter 2

After Sam showers, washes his hair, tries to shave (his hands are too shaky so he gives up), and dresses in the only clean clothes he can find -- black tee-shirt and jeans that are a little too tight and a little too short and he realizes they're Dean's, mixed up somehow with his in his drawers from back before, back when things were normal and they were sharing laundry duty and it must have been Dean's day because Dean was paying less and less attention to everyday chores like cleaning and cooking and laundry as the effects of the Mark of Cain obsessed him more and more.

Sam kicks himself now for all the times he didn't notice what was happening. He should have seen the signs of dangerous addiction earlier. Sam, better than a lot of people, understands addiction, especially addiction with a distinct supernatural dimension. He should have seen how Dean was lying about the Mark, should have recognized the need to lie for what it was -- the shame mingled with the excitement of having the blade in his hand, doing what it wanted him to do.

Sam remembers that feeling, the surge of power and control the Blood made him feel. How Sam rationalized drinking more and more of the stuff to make him stronger so he could protect Dean and avenge his brother's brutal death and time in Hell. Kicking that habit, beating that need, had taken Sam over a hundred years in Hell and the purification process of the trials, which had nearly killed him.

And that, of course, was what led Dean to do what he did to try to save Sam, so that Sam ended up possessed -- again, which was all kinds of wrong, especially since it led to Kevin's death.

But Sam was over his anger about that now. Really he was. He understood Dean for doing what he did. Even if he'd been so hurt and angry he'd told Dean he wouldn't save him if their positions were reversed. He'd said that to hurt Dean, needed to hurt him at the time, and nobody knew like Sam how to push Dean's buttons, how to stick the knife in where it cut the deepest.

So if Sam didn't see this thing with the Mark happening to Dean earlier, it was only because he was so reluctant to recall his own failures, to face how he was at least partly responsible for pushing Dean over the edge. And then after Dean's death, after Crowley had obeyed Sam's summons only to tell him that Dean had already risen and left -- had tried to kill Crowley -- to kill him! in a moment of vengeful rage --

The memories flood back in a rush -- the hours after Dean's death, when he'd summoned Crowley in the dungeon where Dean had summoned him the day before.

"You're too late," Crowley said, appearing before Sam with a look of something almost like human regret in his eyes.

"What d'ya'mean, too late?" Sam demanded, still worked up with grief and alcohol. He'd driven for nearly twelve hours with Dean's body in the back seat -- carefully covering the seat with a blanket first so when Dean came back he wouldn't find blood on his beloved car -- then carried him into the bunker, washed his face, removed his jacket and laid his body on his bed. Sam was shaking with exhaustion, with sobbing for hours off and on during the drive, and now his fury with Crowley was threatening to overwhelm him.

"So, sorry, Moose, he's gone," Crowley shook his head. "And something tells me you won't be seeing him again, at least not for a very long time."

"What?" Sam was shocked. "What are you talking about? I just left him upstairs on his bed. How can he be gone? Where is he?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Sam," Crowley shook his head. "And given the fact that he tried to kill me for the favor of saving him, I'd say I'd rather not have to see him at the moment."

"You brought him back?" Sam cried, hope playing against grief now. "For free? No deal?"

Then Sam realized it was just too good to be true. This was Crowley, after all.

"Why?" he demanded, angry again. "Why would you do that?"

"What can I say?" Crowley shrugged. "I have a soft spot for the little squirrel. After all, he did destroy my arch enemy. Every good turn deserves a beating, as they say."

"You're lying," Sam growled. "There's something you're not telling me."

Crowley frowned, his gaze turning shrewd and calculating, clearly considering the value of bargaining with a Winchester. Again.

Then he shook his head. "I wish I could help you, Sam, I really do. I could use a favor from you, although something tells me you'd just as soon kill me as deal with me."

"Damn straight," Sam agreed furiously. "Now tell me where he is. Damn it, Crowley, tell me what happened to him. You know! I know you know!"

But Crowley just shook his head again, looking pained.

"That's for Dean to tell, Sam," he said. "If he chooses to. If he figures out what's happened to him without me to help him. He's a fool for going off without me, I'll let you know. Bloody stupid Winchesters."

Sam was confused. Why would Dean go off like that? What would make him just leave without telling Sam he was back? Without letting Sam know he was alive?

And now Sam knows. He gets it. Even without Crowley to spell it out for him.

Because Dean's back, new and improved. And Sam needs to know what's happened -- no, it's obvious what's happened, but he needs to know what it means. How can he fix it?

Sam knows, better than most, what it's like to come back from Hell with only part of yourself intact.

The question now is, how much of Dean is still Dean?

When Sam gets to the kitchen Dean's at the stove, making something that smells like Heaven. It makes Sam's belly rumble, and he realizes he's starving. He can't remember when he last ate, and then he realizes he can't remember the last time he bought food, either, and that whatever it is Dean's making must've arrived with him.

And Dean does not look like he's been grocery shopping any time recently.

"I can hear you thinking, Sam," Dean announces, his back still turned, but when Sam feels himself go numb with shock Dean turns slightly, his hands still occupied with the pan of food and spatula -- he's frying something with meat and onions and it smells incredible -- and lifts an eyebrow at Sam.

"Not like that," he assures his brother. "I don't read minds. I just know you."

"Know me?" Sam huffs. "Dean, I can't even tell if you're really you any more. How can you say you know me?"

Dean purses his lips, lowers his eyes, turns back to the pan for a minute like he's making an effort to control his temper.

"You need to eat," he announces, scooping the delicious-smelling mixture onto the toasted whole-wheat bun on a plate next to the stove. He puts the pan down, turns off the stove, turns with the plate in his hand and offers it up to Sam, all in one smooth choreographed move that seems almost seductive.

No, it's definitely seductive. especially since the movement manages to pull Dean's shirt up a little, exposing a sliver of bare skin across his middle.

And now he's standing so close Sam can feel his heat, and he's looking up at Sam with those bottle-green eyes that seem almost translucent, like sunlight through sea water.

"What happened to your eyes?" Sam muses out loud, and Dean frowns.

"What's wrong with my eyes?" but Dean looks a little spooked for a minute, like he had accidentally given something away, something he'd been trying hard to hide.

"They just look different," Sam says. "Brighter, maybe."

"Maybe it's all the iridium I've been inhaling in Hell," Dean jokes. "Makes my eyes glow."

"Dean," Sam feels his face tense as he frowns. "I'm serious. You're different."

"No shit, Sherlock," Dean nods. "Now eat."

And God help him, Sam is so hungry he doesn't even care if Dean's making him feel that way for his own nefarious reasons. Sam takes the plate and -- yes, his fingers touch Dean's and it's like electric fireworks and suddenly way too hot in here -- he sits at the table and takes a bite of the burger and it's unbelievably good, like nectar of the gods, really.

Dean sits down opposite and watches him eat, and it's not creepy at all because it's Dean and Sam is starving in more ways than one and now he's got his brother back and life can begin again.

But it does bother Sam a little that Dean isn't eating or drinking anything. It feels pretty freakin' weird, actually, to be the one stuffing his face while Dean sits there all cool and -- smirking.

Is he smirking?

Sam takes a swig of the beer Dean put in front of him -- cold, incredibly good beer that goes down so perfectly with this infernally delicious burger -- and finally manages to stuff the last of the food in his mouth, chews and swallows and takes another long pull on the beer, putting it down with a sharp tap on the table.

"So I take it you don't eat now," Sam comments.

Dean is still smirking, seems so proud of himself because he's made Sam eat his demonically fabulous home-cooked meal, and he doesn't answer right away, just lowers his eyes and shrugs.

"Not hungry at the moment," he says, then raises his eyes and gives Sam a look Sam has seen him give a thousand times. It's hungry and predatory and intended to cause intense blushing.

"Not hungry for food, anyway," he drawls meaningfully.

Sam's eyes go wide, and he can feel the tell-tale heat building in his cheeks, sees Dean noticing it and fighting down a full-on grin of triumph for getting the response he was obviously going for.

But Sam is so not going there.

"Dude, seriously?" he scoffs. "You're hitting on me?"

Dean shrugs, lowers his eyes, still grinning. "Maybe," he acknowledges, and Sam can't help the warm feeling that fills his chest. Dean's happy, he realizes. Sam can't remember the last time he saw his brother genuinely happy.

It hurts Sam to think it took becoming a demon to make Dean happy. Hurts to think that their life together had become so miserable, so messed up, that they had lost this -- these simple moments when they could just be themselves, content and safe and at peace with each other. Happy.

"So are you gonna tell me where you were?" he changes the subject, gently deflecting Dean's flirtations.

Dean looks up, meets Sam's eyes with a long gaze, considering.

"You really wanna know?" he asks, raising his eyebrows, and Sam feels a tingle of fear run down his spine.

"Not if you're gonna lie to me," he says. "But yeah, I wanna know. Not knowing where you were or what happened to you these past few months -- " he took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "Yeah, Dean, I wanna know."

Dean clenches his jaw and tilts his head away, and Sam can see it's not going to be easy to get him to spill.

But Sam waits, watches Dean go through his series of little avoidance gestures, fiddling with his fingernails on the table top, scrubbing a hand over his face, making faces.

"Dean -- " he tries finally, and Dean's eyes snap up to Sam's face again, frowning.

"I went to see Cain, ok?" Dean says, then flicks his eyes away, and Sam can see he's not going to get the whole story. "I thought if anybody could help me figure this thing out, he could."

"And did he? Help you figure it out?" Sam demands.

Dean shakes his head once. "He confirmed what Crowley said," he mutters darkly. "I can't die now. The Mark won't let me. It'll just keep bringing me back. The only way to be released from its power is to -- "

He stops, glances up at Sam, then away at the corner of the room again.

"What?" Sam demands. "What do you have to do?"

Dean lifts his eyes, meets Sam's gaze again, and Sam can see the old Dean there, the righteous man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and bore his responsibilities like a shield, without complaint.

"I have to pass it on to someone else," Dean says now. "Someone who's worthy. Then I can die in peace."

"Is that what Cain did?" Sam asks. "He passed on his burden to you so he could die?"

Dean looks away, and again Sam knows he won't get the whole story.

"Sorta," Dean admits.

"Well, that's not an option, Dean," Sam says, but Dean won't look at him again, so Sam puts his hand on Dean's arm, and that gets his attention. He looks at Sam's hand, then up at Sam's face, and Sam nods now that he's got Dean's full attention.

"You get me? That's not an option. We'll figure something else out. You obviously can't pass this thing on to somebody else -- it's a curse." And I can't let you die, he says in his head but won't say out loud because Dean wouldn't listen anyway. Thinks he deserves to die.

Or at least he used to think that way.

Sam's hand, still on Dean's arm, is shaking now, and Dean notices. Frowns.

Sam pulls his hand back, then realizes he's shaking all over, his body taking these long, shuddering breaths. It's shock, he thinks. It's his body's reaction to Dean's return after months of stress and grief and obsessive research.

"Hey," Dean says. "Hey, Sammy. What's wrong? What's the matter, Sam? Huh?"

"I don't know," Sam hiccups, his voice as unsteady as the rest of him.

Dean reaches out, puts a hand on Sam's shoulder, and suddenly Sam's nauseous, struggling to get to his feet. He wrenches away from Dean and barely makes it to the sink before he's throwing up, all of that good food gone to waste. His body just couldn't handle it, he thinks as he spits the last of it into the sink, turns on the tap to wash it away, rinse out his mouth and scrub his face.

That's when he feels Dean's hand on his back, gently rubbing, squeezing his shoulder, murmuring softly.

A sob rises in Sam's throat and he's shaking again, feeling weak and small and weepy, like the little boy Dean used to comfort when he had moments like this as a child -- the kid with the sensitive stomach whose big brother was rock solid and always, always there for him.

Dean hands him a toothbrush, already dabbed with toothpaste, and Sam takes it, tries not to think about the fact that Dean was there the whole time, had to have conjured the toothbrush out of thin air.

When Sam's done brushing his teeth Dean says, "Come on, Sam, you're exhausted. You need to sleep."

So Sam finds himself being led down the hall to his room, where the sheets have been washed and the bed neatly made and all the crap on the floor put away, and Dean lays clean sweatpants on the bed, pulls the covers back on the bed, and pats Sam on the back.

"Come on, Sam," he says. "You get in bed and I'll bring you a mug of that soup you always liked when we were kids."

"With the pasta alphabet?" Sam asks incredulously. "Do they even make that anymore?"

"Sure they do," Dean shrugs, turning to go. "And take off those jeans. They're cutting off your circulation." Dean winks -- he actually winks! -- and then he's gone, and Sam's peeling off the stupid jeans and ignoring the sweatpants and just getting under the covers in his boxers and tee-shirt because -- just because.

He considers taking off the tee-shirt because it's a little tight (it's probably Dean's too) but then he decides that's a bit much.

For what? What is he, a bride on his wedding night?

Fuck.

He grabs a book off the nightstand just as Dean comes through the door with a steaming mug of something delicious in his hand. Dean notices the discarded sweatpants immediately, raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything, just hands Sam the soup and sits down on the chair next to the bed.

Dean picks up Sam's book, discarded beside him on the bed, and reads the spine.

"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland," he reads, then raises an eyebrow again at Sam, who is busy experiencing serious homesickness as he sips his soup.

Sam shrugs, feels the blood rush to his cheeks, although he can't imagine why he should feel embarrassed to be reading Lewis Carroll. It's classic literature, after all. 

"After what happened to Charlie with the whole Land of Oz thing, I started reading some of the other classic stories in the library," he explains. "Felt like we outta be prepared for anything. And I never read this one as a kid."

Dean makes one of his non-committal shrugs, and Sam continues, "It's about siblings, you know."

Dean looks up at that, frowning a little as he tries to remember the story.

"Alice's big sister tells her to be good, not run off, and she's supposed to be watching Alice, but Alice takes off after the White Rabbit and falls down the rabbit hole," Sam explains. "You know the rest."

Dean's flipping through the book, looking at the pictures.

"Big sister must've felt pretty shitty for letting that happen," Dean notes.

Sam takes another sip of the incredible soup and shakes his head.

"She never even knows Alice is missing," he says. "As far as she knows, Alice goes off to play with her kitten and falls asleep. The whole Wonderland thing is just a dream."

"Well that's original," Dean says dryly, and Sam smiles because it's such a Dean thing to say. "How's your soup?"

"It's really good," Sam admits, and Dean nods smugly.

"You want me to read to you, Sammy?" Dean says it half-mockingly, and Sam blushes uncontrollably again. It occurs to him that this whole taking-care-of-Sam thing is a big act, some kind of demonic pretense designed to manipulate Sam into trusting this thing that his brother has become, all for some nefarious purpose he can't yet see and Dean isn't telling him about.

But then Dean's deep, expressive voice begins to read to him and it's like he's a kid again, and he's home sick from school because of his troublesome stomach, and Dean's put him to bed and taken his temperature and now he's reading to him to help him fall asleep.

Only he can't fall asleep because the sound of Dean's voice is intoxicating and he can't keep his eyes off his brother's face, or his hands as he turns the pages, or the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. Or the way his knee bounces a little when he hits a difficult section with a lot of rhymes and he has to go back and try again from the top.

But eventually Sam feels his eyelids grow heavy, and the empty soup cup is gently removed from his hands and placed on the bedside table, and he feels Dean's lips pressed to his forehead, Dean's hand brushing back his hair.

"'Night, Sammy," Dean murmurs, and the air gets colder as Dean moves away so Sam reaches out, unthinking instinct and sleepiness making him helpless to stop himself, and he grabs Dean's wrist, opens his eyes to look up at Dean and begs him to stay.

"Please," he adds, and watches Dean's face soften with that little half-smile he reserves only for Sam.

"I don't sleep," Dean mutters apologetically, and Sam shakes his head.

"It's okay," he breathes, and he means it. It's all suddenly just okay, every damn thing about this, 'cause if Dean's suddenly turned into Lucifer himself Sam is just okay with that.

Dean must see the surrender in Sam's face because his smile turns a little smug.

"Okay, but you gotta take off that tee-shirt," he says. "It's giving me a complex."

Sam's not sure it's a good idea for him to get more naked at this particular moment, but he sits up, leans forward, and pulls the shirt off over his head anyway, dropping it on the floor next to the bed, where Dean picks it up, folds it neatly on the chair, followed by his own shirt and jeans.

That's when Sam notices Dean's anti-possession tat is missing.

And Dean's skin is smooth and lacking all the old scars everywhere.

Dean shoots him one more look, making sure he still has Sam's permission, then pulls back the covers and slides in, scoops Sam into his arms like he used to do when they were kids, lets Sam drape himself all over his brother, slide a leg between Dean's legs and push an arm under him so he can hold him as close as two people can be. Dean lies still for a minute, idly tracing circles on Sam's arm where it lies heavy across his belly, his other hand stroking Sam's shoulder.

For his part, Sam lies as still as he can with his crotch pushed up against his brother's hip and his cheek pressed against the expanse of warm chest, not wanting to spoil the moment by reminding Dean that they are, in fact, cuddling. Or that all this skin against skin, coupled with the long drought of their separation, is making Sam predictably hard.

But Dean knows. He presses his lips into Sam's hair and shifts a little, so Sam can feel his erection against Sam's leg, hot and smooth through the light cotton of his shorts.

"Yeah, here's the thing, Sam," Dean says, as if they've already been talking about this and Dean's just adding his two cents. "I sorta lost my moral compass, so the whole brother thing doesn't exactly bother me anymore."

Sam takes that in, his mind replaying all the times Dean pushed him away, expressed his disgust and revulsion at Sam's obvious desire for greater intimacy, even though Sam could tell he wanted it just as much as Sam did.

And it wasn't like they hadn't ever slept together. Hell, they'd been sleeping in the same bed since Sam was a baby, stopping only when Dean entered puberty and got all freaked out because little-boy Sam was rubbing all over him and making him hard.

But when Sam's own puberty drove them together again, made Sam all needy and desperate for the only person whose love he could always count on, made Sam want Dean with a consuming, passionate obsession that threatened to drown them both, Dean had to draw the line.

Because Sam couldn't.

And things inevitably happened, of course, because Sam was Dean's little brother and Dean couldn't stand that his denial was making Sam so miserable. Dean let things happen because he was programmed to take care of Sam. And Sam took what he could get, then kept pushing for more until Dean started leaving, taking off on hunting trips with their dad, forcing Sam to face his own obsession for what it was -- unhealthy not because it was incestuous, but because it was consuming and selfish and ultimately destructive for Dean. Because it held Dean back from living any kind of normal life, having any chance at a normal relationship.

And by the time Sam left for Stanford things had gone just about as far as they could between them, so Sam left because he knew it was the only way for Dean to have a chance at anything normal. He left because he needed Dean to be free, to see himself as the good man Sam knew him to be, not as some pervy pedophile who had corrupted his little brother.

But of course nothing could ever be normal with them, and by the time Dean came to get him at school Sam was already looking for ways to leave Jessica, had already worked out in his mind how he could return to Dean, believed his obsession had burned itself out and he could manage to be with his brother again in a healthier way.

Which was why Jessica's death had filled him with so much guilt. It wasn't just because he had death visions. Jess's death solved the problem of breaking things off with her, and that was just so wrong.

And for awhile after he and Dean were together again Sam managed to control his hunger, told himself he didn't deserve Dean anyway because he'd been so selfish and demanding when he was a teenager. He needed Dean to see he was grown up and could be trusted not to insist on having things his way between them, that he could respect Dean's feelings on the matter.

Because Dean's feelings for Sam were as clear as mud, and it didn't help that they never talked about it -- the elephant in the room -- at least not directly. But the few times it did come up -- when Sam got drunk and a little too handsy and needy, practically forcing himself on Dean and sobbing himself to sleep afterwards -- Dean muttered about their being brothers, how wrong it was, how sick, which only made Sam feel needier, more demanding, even weepier with guilt for giving Dean yet another reason to hate himself.

But as time went on Sam learned to control it better, for Dean's sake. He understood that Dean felt responsible for Sam's lust, felt it was his fault his little brother wanted him so badly, and Sam couldn't bear to add to the burden of guilt in Dean's chest. It was just unfair for Dean to carry that too.

So he fought it with every ounce of energy in his being. And after awhile it became habit, the suppression and repression and angst of ruthless self-control, self-flagellation. He learned to jack off in the shower, in bed after Dean fell asleep, in the bathroom alone in the mornings. He taught himself to touch Dean casually, to fake a disinterested smile when Dean touched him, to hold back and tamp down all the need to be everything for Dean because Dean wanted it that way, or at least seemed to feel it should be that way.

And when he caught Dean looking at him with longing, felt his hands on him in a way that was too intimate, too heated to be merely brotherly, Sam tried to reassure him, tried to convey his understanding, tried to make Dean see how much he loved him, accepted all the unresolved sexual tension as just part of the way it was between them.

There were times when Sam thought he'd succeeded, made Dean feel safe enough to take the extra step towards the intimacy that Sam still hoped for, despite it all. He knew Dean wanted it too, and that maybe if Sam could just make him see through the incest thing -- if Dean could just see that it wasn't sick, that between the Winchesters it was just an expression of how deeply they loved each other -- not necessary, no, but nevertheless a real, healthy part of a human relationship between two people who mean everything to each other.

Because Sam knew, deep in his bones, that it wasn't really wrong, that in the eyes of God or whatever great force of nature presided over everything, Sam's and Dean's love for each other was pure as the driven snow. If they hadn't been brothers, their souls would have found each other, Sam was sure. They'd even had that tested at one point in their crazy lives, and Zachariah's stupid game had proven Sam's point utterly. Sam and Dean were meant to be, that was all.

And now -- as Sam lies wrapped around his brother with his head on Dean's bare chest, now that they're both in their thirties with hundreds of years in Hell behind them -- now that one of them isn't even human anymore -- now Dean says he's finally ready.

Okay, then.

Sam takes a deep breath, smooths his hand down Dean's chest, lets his thumb rub against one beaded nipple, making Dean's breath hitch and his body arc up into Sam's touch. Sam turns his face and presses his lips against the warm skin, skims his hand down over Dean's belly as his mouth finds Dean's other nipple, tugs it into his mouth as Dean makes a little gasping sound and bucks up into Sam's mouth. Sam grinds slowly against Dean's hip, turns his body so that he can slip his leg down firmly between Dean's, pushing his legs apart even wider, blanketing Dean's body more completely with his own. Dean's erection is throbbing against Sam's stomach now, so Sam pushes his hand down over it, getting a good grasp through the thin cotton of Dean's boxers, begins working it slowly as he grinds his own erection against Dean's hip.

"Sam -- " Dean's breath is coming in long, ragged moans now, and Sam raises his head to look at his brother. His face is flushed, freckles prominent against his pale skin, plush lips parted, long-lashed eyelids at half-mast. He swallows, and his Adam's apple bobs enticingly, so that Sam needs to taste that, slides his body up over Dean's so he can reach it, kisses and nibbles at the stubbled flesh on Dean's neck as his hand works Dean's dick. Then Dean's hand is in his hair, tilting his face up so Dean can reach his mouth with his impossibly full lips, and suddenly Sam is drowning in Dean's kiss, tongue and teeth working at Sam's mouth until his lips feel swollen and bruised and his jaw aches. Somehow Dean rolls him so that he's on his back and Dean's on top, pushing his body between Sam's legs, spreading them so that Dean can settle there, grinding his dick against Sam's. Sam has a brief sense of Dean's strength as he holds Sam's wrists down on the bed beside his head, and Sam experiences a brief thrill of fear as he realizes Dean is much, much stronger now.

Then Dean's mouth is working Sam's neck, sucking and licking and nibbling as he moves down, dipping his tongue into the hollow at the base of his throat, releasing Sam's wrists so his hands can join his mouth in his exploration of Sam's massive chest. He runs his fingers through the hair there, thumbs Sam's nipples to erection, then takes them in his mouth one at a time, sucking and pulling at them lightly with his teeth. Sam groans loudly and arches his back, pushing up into Dean's mouth, and Dean smiles at that, seems to enjoy making Sam writhe and come apart beneath him. Dean moves lower, scooting down the bed so he's kneeling between Sam's legs, looks up the length of Sam's body with a smile that is predatory and dangerous as he slips his fingers around the waistband of Sam's boxers, making Sam shiver.

"These have to come off now, Sammy," he murmurs, and Sam nods, speechless with lust as he watches Dean, still finding it hard to believe this is really happening.

In one smooth movement, Dean pulls down Sam's boxers and tosses them aside, backing off the bed so he's standing on the floor, so he can push his own shorts off and step out of them. And now he's standing there, perfect and naked and hard and gazing up the length of Sam's body with that heavy-lidded look that's a mixture of desire and devotion and awe -- a kind of worshipful adoration that Sam recognizes because it's what he feels when he looks at Dean.

"Fuck, Sam, you're just -- " Perfect. Beautiful. Mine, Sam finishes in his head, because he thinks it too, even if neither of them can say the words out loud.

"Come here," Sam chokes out, and Dean complies, crawling onto the bed and up Sam's body, so they're flush in each other's arms again, dicks rubbing together, chests pressed tight, legs tangled together. Sam takes Dean's head in his hands and leans in for a gentle kiss, then releases Dean's mouth and gazes into his eyes again.

"You done this before?" he asks, and Dean shakes his head.

"You?"

Sam hesitates, then admits, "Once. Pretended it was you."

"Wanted this since before you were born, I think," Dean admits. "It was all over the minute I saw you."

"Me too," Sam breathes.

"Wasted a lotta years," Dean observes, "thinking this was wrong."

Sam leans in for another soft kiss.

"Such an ass," he whispers against Dean's mouth.

Dean's lips curl into a smile against Sam's.

"Little bitch," he murmurs back, and Sam's tongue plunges into his mouth, silencing them both for awhile as they fuck the hell out of each other's facial orifices.

They're both fighting for dominance now, sparring as they used to do when Sam was small and Dean could always come out on top, until Sam got big and Dean stopped egging him on because it rarely ended well for him once Sam was fully grown.

But now Sam can feel Dean's new strength, and he's not sure he could take him. It's an odd sensation, being the less powerful one after all the years of coming out on top, of being used to carrying his big brother if he needed it. Now Sam guesses he could probably still carry Dean, but no way was he gonna beat him in a fight.

And now, with Dean pushing him onto has back so he can pin his wrists next to his head and attack his mouth and neck again, straddling Sam's body as he does it, sitting on him to hold him down -- it feels like being a little kid again, like being powerless and helpless and needing and wanting and vulnerable and dependent on his big brother to take care of him.

It's confusing and exhilarating at the same time, and he must be making little whimpering noises because Dean lifts his head, stares down at him, and Sam's bucking up under him, trying to regain the contact.

"You okay?" Dean asks. "You wanna be on top?"

"You're asking me?" Sam doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"'Course I'm asking, Sam," Dean snaps. "This ain't some kind of non-consensual bondage thing. I know you got control issues, and I'm sure as hell not trying to possess you."

It was almost funny, Dean being a demon and all, and Sam almost laughs, but probably just manages to look a little insane, 'cause Dean's climbing off, releasing his wrists, slipping down beside him on the bed.

"Come on," Dean says. "You drive."

It's so incredible, Dean just giving in like that, that it makes Sam feel more cared for than anything Dean could have done.

Sam feels a single tear slide down his cheek, lets Dean cup his face and swipe his thumb across it as he lowers his mouth for another long, bruising kiss, sweeping his hand down Dean's body, pulling him in so they're pressed together again, Sam half on-top.

Things move along without conversation after that, Sam devouring his brother's body with his mouth for awhile, caressing and messaging with his hands until Dean's a quivering, boneless mess. And when Sam slides to his knees on the floor and pulls Dean's body down to the edge of the bed, spreading his legs wide so Sam can lick and suck between them, it's Dean's turn to writhe and moan and whimper, especially when Sam's lubed fingers push into him, working him till he's good and open and can take Sam's oversized dick. And when he's eased all the way into Dean's body, Sam leans down over him and takes his mouth again, swallowing Dean's cries of near-painful pleasure as Sam fucks him with his tongue and his dick, reaching between their bodies to jack Dean's neglected erection till he tenses, arching under Sam as he hits that perfect spot that sends shudder after shudder of pleasure through his body. Dean wrenches his mouth away as the shock waves immobilize him, soft strangled sobs punched out with each thrust. Sam pushes up on one arm so he can watch Dean's face as he comes undone, mouth open and slack, eyes half-lidded and unseeing, skin flushed and radiant. He watches as his thrusts hit their mark every time, watches as Dean's body reacts without conscious thought, watches as the tension builds in Dean's face so that he's suddenly gasping, clenching his jaw, throwing his head back against the pillow, exposing the long, tight muscles in his neck and shoulders, and it's the most beautiful thing Sam's ever seen, watching his brother come -- all the years and years of waiting for this moment and it just doesn't compare to the reality of Dean letting it all go for Sam, because of Sam, with Sam inside him -- and it's that thought --- he's inside his brother, where he belongs -- that's what sends Sam's own orgasm surging through him, tearing out of him like the white heat and momentary blankness of an exploding star, or death itself.

He's breathing hard as he comes down, opens his eyes, gazes down at Dean's face, still out of it in the haze of his afterglow.

And that's when he sees it, feels the shock of it because as much as he expected it there's nothing like actually seeing evidence of it, and realizes with almost as much shock that he had until this moment still hoped it wasn't true.

Dean's eyes are black.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter gets pretty porny, and there's an undercurrent of non-con with rape flashbacks, so it's a little dark.

Sam wakes up in a cold sweat.

He's in his bed, has obviously been sleeping, which in and of itself is unusual since he can't remember the last time he had a good night's sleep in a bed.

Then he realizes he's naked and the whole crazy mess comes crashing down.

Dean's a demon. He's alive but transformed into the very thing they've always hated and hunted.

And he and Sam just had sex. With each other.

Sam has a vivid flashback of the last time he had sex with a demon, and how well that ended. He sits up and runs his hands through his hair, then hunches over with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.

"Sam."

Sam lurches off the bed, grabbing the gun wedged under his pillow and crouches defensively behind the bed, gun trained on the familiar shape in the corner of the room.

"Damn it, Cas," he reproaches the angel as he lowers the gun. "You know better. Do you wanna get shot?"

"I must speak with you," Castiel says as if that excuses his sudden appearance in Sam's bedroom in the middle of the night.

"Yeah, well, knock first next time," Sam grouches, slipping the gun back in place and grabbing his sweatpants off the floor. So that's where they went, he thinks absently as he pulls them on. "What's up?"

Castiel sniffs the air, which makes Sam blush because the room smells of sex and sulfur and it's not okay for Castiel to make a comment about that.

But of course he does anyway.

"You have had sex with a demon," Castiel notes. "Again."

Sam raises his arms, palms up.

"And how is that any business of yours?" he demands defensively.

Castiel stares at him with that inscrutable blue gaze of his and Sam frowns, trying to pull off offended, but of course in this situation he doesn't exactly have the moral upper hand.

"Your brother is a demon now, Sam," Castiel says darkly. "He cannot be trusted."

"What -- wait -- you knew?" Sam's outraged. "You knew this had happened to Dean and you didn't tell me?"

"I thought it would be best if you didn't know," Castiel says with infuriating calm. "I did not expect Dean to come back here."

"He's my brother, Cas." Sam's incredulous as well as outraged now. "How can you not tell me he's become a demon?"

He's got his hands on his hips now, glaring accusingly at Cas as he adds, "Where the hell have you been, by the way? And how the hell are you? Here I've been thinking you were dead too. Thought your borrowed grace was burning you out."

Castiel shakes his head. "My grace was restored when Metatron reversed the spell that closed Heaven," he explains. "I have been busy helping the angels rebuild their celestial home."

He softens his voice a little, winces as he adds, "I'm sorry I let you believe I had died, Sam. I'm sure it was painful for you to assume you were all alone in the world."

"Jesus, Cas, y'think?" Sam's still angry, shifts his stance and scrubs a hand over his face. "So Metatron's still alive."

Castiel nods. "He's locked up in Heaven, in the same cell where Gadreel spent eternity. Now Metatron faces the same fate for his crimes against his brothers and sisters. And for killing Dean."

"Yeah, well you better hope he stays there," Sam says darkly. "'Cause there's a price on his head, as far as I'm concerned, for what he did to Dean."

Castiel nods again. "Understood, Sam. It wasn't easy, letting him live, I can assure you. But you do realize that it wasn't Dean's death that triggered his transformation."

"Yeah, I get it," Sam runs a hand through his hair. "It's the Mark. Crowley needs to pay for getting Dean into this. Now I just have to figure out how to get him out of it."

"You do realize you have the cure flowing through your veins, Sam," Castiel reminds him. "If we work together, perhaps we can capture Dean, inject him with your blood -- "

"Hey guys," Dean's suddenly in the room, next to Sam, showered and dressed again in that incredible black tee-shirt and jeans.

Sam feels like a scraggly, unwashed dog next to his brother's perfection, and he's glad Dean doesn't try to touch him, stands just close enough so Sam can feel his heat.

"What's up?" Dean looks guilelessly from Sam to Castiel, but it's obvious he heard them talking, and Sam feels his face fall, can't look Dean in the eye.

Castiel's having the same problem. He can't seem to look at Dean at all, which suggests that he can see Dean's demon face, which is so so weird for Sam, and he feels another wave of shame and humiliation as he gets yet one more confirmation of what's happened to Dean.

Because it doesn't change the way he feels about Dean. Maybe even makes him want Dean more.

Fuck.

"You're not trying to drive a wedge between me and Sam, are you, Cas?" Dean asks pointedly. "Cause I can tell you right now that ain't gonna work."

"He's just trying to help, Dean," Sam says. "We both just want to fix you."

"And what if I don't need fixin'?" Dean challenges. "What if I'm just fine the way I am?"

"You don't mean that," Castiel says. "The man I dragged out of Hell all those years ago would never accept this."

"Well let's just say I'm not that guy anymore," Dean says. "I've changed. No, before this happened, I really changed. I'm not some bitch for you and Michael and Lucifer and all your pals in Heaven to fuck around with anymore. And you know that. You and I spent a year in Purgatory together. Remember that? Huh? Pure survival. Pure killing for the sake of survival. How many of those things did we gank, Cas? Huh? A thousand? At least ten, maybe fifteen every single goddamn day. So you and me -- we have a history, and you know I'm not that guy you pulled out of Hell. You know that."

Dean's paced around the end of the bed, pointing his hand at Castiel to make his point, and Castiel glances at him, winces and looks away.

"You're not just a killer, Dean," Castiel protests lamely, and Dean huffs out a breath.

"Well, I sure as hell ain't your good little soldier anymore either," he spits out. "I don't have to answer to nobody."

Castiel lifts his eyes then, looks surprised. "Crowley -- " he starts, and Dean cuts him off.

"Crowley is not my boss." Dean's disgust at the idea is palpable.

"So who -- " Castiel's face registers shock and fear. "Not Lucifer," he breathes.

Dean's face gets very dark then, and Sam imagines his eyes turning black with hate, but they don't. His pupils expand though, making his eyes look almost black anyway.

"I will never serve that son-of-a-bitch," Dean growls menacingly. "He will sit in that cage and rot till the end of time for what he did to my brother, and if I could I would get in there with him just so I could show him a few things about vengeance the Winchester Way, 'cause he ain't seen torture till he sees what I can do these days."

Shivers of fear run up Sam's spine at Dean's words, and he's instantly hard as a rock.

Fuck.

"Sam," Castiel's trying to get his attention, ignoring Dean. "Don't eat anything he gives you," he says. "It could be laced with demon blood."

Sam blinks, gazes into Castiel's blue eyes as his own widen with shock, sees Castiel's face fall.

"Oh, Sam," he whispers. "You didn't."

"I think you should go, Cas," Dean says. "My brother and I have work to do."

He takes a step toward Castiel, and the angel glances at him, then over his shoulder at Sam.

"Be careful, Sam," he warns, and then he's gone.

 

* *

For a moment Sam can't move, can't even think.

He ate the burger, drank the beer. Threw up, yeah, but then he ate the soup --

Fuck.

"Earth to Sam." Dean's right in front of him, vivid green eyes gazing up at him, guileless and wide open. "Hey, buddy. It's okay. I'm not trying to poison you. Why would I do that? You're my little brother. It's my job to keep you safe, remember?"

"I don't know, Dean," Sam says hesitantly. "You're a demon now. How can I trust anything you say? Demons lie."

"Well, for starters, I let you fuck me last night," Dean says. "I'd say that takes some trust, wouldn't you?"

Dean takes the last step into Sam's space, and Dean smooths his hands over Sam's chest, watching the muscles tense under his touch, and Sam takes a shuddering breath, unable to control his body's responses.

"You gonna let me return the favor, Sam?" Dean murmurs, looking up again, letting his gaze linger on Sam's mouth. "Gonna let me fuck you?"

That's it. Sam's so done. He closes his eyes in a last ditch effort at sanity, hearing the depraved moan slipping out of him as he feels Dean's body press into his, then his hands are cupping Sam's face, pulling him down so Dean can reach his lips, and Sam's just lost, damned all to hell because he's letting Dean do this to him, just kiss him slow and deep so that Sam's whole body turns to molten fire and he's just melting into Dean, he's putty in Dean's hands, hot, swollen, helpless, fucked.

This time when Dean lays him out, kisses down his body and finally takes Sam's dick in his mouth -- and Sam could watch Dean's mouth around his dick for-fucking-ever -- this time he knows he's giving in, he knows Dean can just do this to him any time and every time, because it's dirty and dangerous and so so hot and he wants it. He wants it all. Wants Dean's mouth on him everywhere, wants his tongue lapping at his balls and licking him open, tasting himself because of course Sam hasn't showered since last night and Dean is eating him out like there's no tomorrow and the look on his face -- like he's in some kind of personal paradise where there's only Sam and Sam's ass and Sam's dick -- so fucking beautiful Sam starts to sob silently, long wracking heaves and tears running down his face and suddenly Dean's there, his face hovering over Sam's, eyes lust-blown and cheeks flushed.

"Shhh, Sam, hey, it's okay," he murmurs, "I'll stop. If you don't want me to, I'll stop."

"No," Sam sobs, clasping Dean's face in his hands, trying to focus through the blur of his tears. "No, don't stop. I want you to. I want you. I'm just -- it's just a little overwhelming, is all. I never thought I'd ever have this. I never -- fuck, I'm sorry, Dean. I'm such a baby."

"Fuckin' big baby, is what," Dean agrees with a lewd grin, leaning down to capture Sam's mouth again, kissing the tears from his cheeks with surprising tenderness, simultaneously reaching his hand down between Sam's legs, finding his hole, messaging and probing with lubed fingers until Sam feels himself opening, letting Dean's fingers inside, filling him as he gasps.

"Okay, Sam?" Dean's murmuring as he inserts another finger. "You still with me?"

Sam takes a shaky breath, nods.

"Yeah, it's good," he gasps as Dean starts moving his fingers, pumping in and out, stretching.

Sam arches his back, pushes down on Dean's hand, closes his eyes so he can just feel the strange sensation. Dean's mouth is on his neck, licking and nibbling, and he visualizes Dean's lips, then opens his eyes again so he can watch as Dean kisses down his chest and belly, takes hold of his dick and slips the head between his lips and Sam almost comes right there, has to squeeze his eyes shut again to block out the sight, tensing every muscle in his body.

Dean smiles against his mouthful of Sam, lets his dick go for a minute so he can speak.

"Go ahead, Sam, give it to me," he says, looking up at Sam with such pure lust in his eyes they're almost black again.

Then Dean's mouth is back on his dick and he's hollowing his cheeks and sucking and oh shit! Sam's just letting go in Dean's mouth and Dean's swallowing and it's fuckin' unbelievable, man, just --

Sam whites out for a minute as he pumps out his orgasm, and when he comes to Dean's still pumping his ass with his fingers and swallowing the last of his aftershocks. Sam's never felt so taken care of, and in his sleepy, post-orgasmic haze he's only vaguely aware that Dean's lubing himself, positioning himself between Sam's legs, pushing his legs apart and back so he can push the head of his dick against Sam's hole.

"Okay? Sam? You okay with this?" Dean's looking up the length of Sam's body. and Sam looks down, locks gazes with his brother, nods.

"Yeah," he hears himself say, voice sounding groggy to his own ears. "Go for it."

Dean makes a short thrust and he's in, which gets Sam's attention because it hurts, or maybe it's just weird, maybe that's not pain he feels, but --

Dean pushes and suddenly Sam's mind is flooded with unwanted memories -- this happened in Hell -- Lucifer did this to him, so many times he can't count, doesn't want to count, doesn't want to remember --

His whole body tenses, he's going into shock, he's gonna start fighting it --

Then Dean's face is there, right there above him, murmuring.

"Hey, Sammy, hey, it's me, I'm not him, it's okay," he's pulled out, he's just messaging Sam's hole again, starting over.

And Sam nods, takes another breath.

"I'm okay," he insists. "I can do this. I need to do this. Want it to be you."

Dean kisses him, smiles reassuringly, starts again.

And Dean's patient, persistent, hangs in there and takes it slow, so when he finally eases all the way in Sam's okay, he's not freaking out, he's not seeing Lucifer (who of course knew exactly who Sam really wanted to fuck so he would make himself look like Dean when he raped him) and the look on Dean's face when he's completely bottomed out inside Sam's body is so beautiful Sam starts crying again, huge silent tears rolling down his cheeks so Dean starts murmuring "baby, baby, fuckin' baby, my little baby brother" to him as he fucks, slow and careful at first, then more urgently as he hits Sam's prostate and Sam's whole body rocks with the most amazing electric shock he's ever felt and damn he wants more of that.

So Dean gives it to him, over and over until he can't see straight, can't think straight, is vaguely aware of himself making all kinds of guttural noises he can't control -- is vaguely aware of Dean's face hovering over his, watching him fall apart, dick hard and sensitive and Dean's got his hand wrapped around it and then it's all over and he's punching out Dean's name in a long loud yell that echoes in the room as he comes, harder and longer than he's ever come, and Dean tenses suddenly and just before he blacks out Sam's aware of Dean's dick twitching and pumping in his ass as he comes.

As he starts to come around, Sam's thinking he forgot to look to see if Dean's eyes turned black again, if that's something that happens every time he comes.

Time for that, he tells himself. Lots of time for that.

And as he's drifting off, sleep overwhelming him even as he feels Dean pulling out, getting up, coming back with a warm damp cloth to wash him off, letting himself be pulled down on the bed so Sam can spoon him, wrap himself around his brother and nose at the back of his neck as he settles -- Sam's last conscious thought as he's breathing Dean's scent, pulling him closer against his chest, Sam's arms held against Dean's chest possessively --

My lover is a demon and it's perfect.


	4. Chapter 4

The next time he wakes up Sam's pretty sure it's morning. Late morning. He feels better rested than he's been in months, ever since -- well, actually scratch that. He feels better, period, than he's ever felt in his life.

Something is so wrong here.

He gets up and dresses quickly, finding his clothes all clean and neatly put away where they're supposed to go -- that in itself is just creepy --- and decides he needs to get the hell OUT for awhile so he goes for a run.

The morning is clear and crisp, fall just getting a start on the weather, making the air smell woodsy and clean, the sky a bright relentless blue against the changing leaves of the few trees -- they're in Kansas, after all. It's a lot of flat, making running easy. Sam runs past the area where he and Castiel found Gadreel that day, passed out from blood loss and weakened from the blade wound Dean gave him. He knows what happened to Gadreel -- Castiel had at least told him about that on his one or two visits early on, right after Dean died, offering his comfort and clearly in need of some of his own.

But he couldn't say what had happened to Dean. He'd had theories. He knew the Mark was responsible. Sam suspected even then that Castiel was writing Dean off as lost, which was infuriating and made Sam feel stupid and useless, so that he was a little harder on Castiel than he should have been probably. May have even rebuffed Castiel's offers to help out of a combination of grief and Winchester stubbornness.

Of course at that point Castiel was dying himself, so he was a little preoccupied, and Sam couldn't blame him -- wished he could fix him and fully intended to but he didn't come back, just went AWOL until yesterday.

And now Sam wonders if he'll ever come back.

Sam couldn't blame him if he didn't. After what happened yesterday, it must've been obvious to Castiel that Sam's a lost cause.

Because it's true -- he's definitely lost. He can't think straight. When he thinks about Dean all he wants to do is run home and pull him into bed again. His body is thrumming with need, his mind tangled with images of Dean from last night. He's aching and bruised all over and he likes it. Fuckin' loves it. Wants more.

Cas was wrong. This isn't a demon-blood addiction. This is a Dean addiction. Just like when he was in high school only about a million times more intense because Dean is into it. Wants it too. Is ready and willing to give Sam what he needs, to feed this addiction as much as he wants.

Fuck.

Sam runs harder, runs until the sweat pours off his body in waves, runs until the blood is pounding in his ears and his breath is ragged and his chest hurts, his throat burns. He's always used exercise this way -- to keep the demons in his head at bay -- and usually it helps.

But today it only makes him more aware of his own body. Of how he feels when Dean touches him. When Dean kisses him. When Dean fucks him.

Fuck.

This is going nowhere, he realizes after an hour, so he jogs home in defeat, slinks into the bunker and is almost relieved not to see Dean as he heads to the shower, takes care of his painfully hard dick under the warm water, although he's still sensitive and sore from the night before, and of course he's imaging Dean's dick in his ass as he comes --

This is insane.

Sam's gone more than two years without sex, and in just the last twenty-four hours he's had more of it than he can ever remember having in one night.

That's all it is, he tells himself as he washes off the come and lube and sweat. It's just his body's response to over-stimulation, after depriving himself of it for so long. The serotonin receptors in his brain are on overload. His hormones are hyper-revved.

It's exactly like being a horny teenager again.

And just like he did then, he can control this. Doesn't have to give into it. Sam's had years to learn the self-control he needs to function half-way normally with Dean, and he can do this.

Sam dresses casually, in layers and loose-fitting jeans, controlling his irritation and alarm at finding more clean clothes folded and put away in his drawers. He smells the bacon and coffee before he gets to the kitchen, so he knows Dean's there, but he stubbornly resists the urge to watch Dean cook and instead goes into the library, pulls out his laptop, starts trawling for supernatural activity.

"Found us a job," Dean announces as he enters the room, plate of eggs and bacon in one hand, coffee cup in the other. He sets them down at Sam's elbow, lays his hand on Sam's shoulder, gives it a slight squeeze before pacing around the table so he's facing Sam, claps his hands like an over-excited puppy wagging its tail.

Sam looks up at him, leaning back in his chair, frowning.

"Dean, I can't work with you," he reminds him. "You're a demon. You are what I hunt."

Dean tips his head, raising his eyebrows mischievously, hands still clasped in front of him.

"Oh no, there's where you're wrong, Sammy," he says cheerfully. "You're not seein' the big picture here. See, I used to have good instincts, and I used to be a decent hunter." He pauses, considering, then adds, "Damn good hunter, even. But now -- now I've got the inside track on the whole business. Now I can smell these things coming a mile away. No more walking into situations with our eyes closed. No more getting captured and tied up and threatened with each other's lives.

"And you should see me in a fight now, Sam," Dean's going on and on, pacing, working himself up, bragging to Sam like he's a five-year-old trying to impress his big brother. Really, Sam can actually remember times when he acted like this with Dean, so he knows what he's talking about.

It's like their roles have been reversed.

"I can gank those sons-o'-bitches before they even know what hit them -- with my bare hands! I've got the strength of ten demons, Sam, and I can leap off buildings -- probably do it carrying you! -- and jump like a motherfuckin' lemur."

He pauses for a minute, thinking, and Sam's just watching him, trying not to think about how hot it is to see Dean so happy, so full of enthusiasm and energy and excitement.

Dean raises his eyes to Sam's, and they're actually sparkling, crinkled at the corners as he grins at Sam happily.

"And that's just the super-physical stuff," he says with a wink. "Then there's all the the extra-normal stuff like teleporting and telekinesis."

Sam nods. "So you can bend spoons now," he notes dryly.

Dean frowns a little, obviously missing Sam's reference but aware that he's being mocked.

He's too happy to let it bother him, though, so he just shrugs and shakes his head.

"You're not listening, Sam," he insists. "This is a good thing. We can be a better team now. I was always the grunt before, not pulling my full weight because you had all the brains and more than your share of the brawn and you never really needed me. But now I -- "

"That's not true, Dean," Sam interrupts. "You were always a full partner. Hell, you were the boss, as far as I was concerned. You had the best instincts, and you were downright scary in a fight."

"Well, my instincts are definitely better than ever," Dean notes. "And I am through-the-roof bad-ass now. So the world can just kiss my ass, 'cause here come the Winchesters, bigger and badder than ever."

He claps his hands, thrusting and swiveling his hips in such a parody of his former cockiness it almost makes Sam laugh.

But then he remembers how sad it is because that old Dean is really and truly dead and gone.

Sam sighs, closes his eyes for a moment, opens them again.

Dean's looking at him, his expression full of such longing, such fondness, it's easy to forget his soul is a black, burned-out shell.

"What's the matter, Sammy?" he asks. "You worried I won't be able to stop myself if I start killing? 'Cause I can, y'know. I can control it."

"I know, Dean," Sam sighs again. "That's what you say."

"You still think you can't trust me, is that it? After last night -- after all we've been through before that -- "

Dean raises his arms, palms up, then drops them in a gesture of exasperated helplessness.

"I just wanna work, Sammy," Dean turns plaintive, widens his huge green eyes at Sam so Sam has to close his own against the onslaught. "Want it to be like it was before. You and me, on the road, hunting things, saving people. Just want us to be a family again."

Fuck.

Sam clenches his jaw, turns his face away before opening his eyes again so he doesn't have to see Dean's hopeful, needy gaze.

"What is it, Sam?" Dean lowers his voice so that it rumbles in his chest, makes Sam's chest warm in response. "What's wrong, little brother?"

When Sam doesn't answer, just stares at his breakfast without touching it, Dean finally shows some temper.

"Come on, Sam," he growls. "Stop sulking. You got issues, and I get that. You got issues with me, I need to know what they are. We can deal with this, whatever it is, Sam, if you just talk to me."

He sounds so reasonable, like this is just a misunderstanding, like this is just like that time Sam found Dean feeling up Carla Ramspeck in the boys locker room and it filled him with such jealousy he wrote the girl a note, pretending it was from Dean, telling her he was involved with somebody else and she should just forget about him.

And Sam delivered the note in person, glaring up at the girl with such pained hatred in his eyes all she could do was blink back at him as she read the note, turn several shades of pink, crumple the paper in her hand and clench her jaw.

"You tell that brother of yours I don't give a shit," she hissed at Sam. "You tell him I already have a boyfriend anyway, and he's got a lot of money and he's gonna go to medical school and Dean Winchester can just go to hell! You tell him, you hear?"

And Sam just nodded, swallowing his triumph, trying not to convey how not-sorry he was because he won.

He fuckin' won!

And Dean never found out. Just moved on, shrugged like it didn't mean anything, like sucking up another rejection was just parr for the course with him.

"The fact that you have to ask what's wrong, Dean," Sam says now, turning back to face his brother. "The fact that you don't even see why a Winchester can't work with a demon. That's what's wrong about this. That's my issue."

Dean stares at him for a moment, then mutters, "We worked with Crowley."

"You worked with Crowley, Dean," Sam reminds him. "I told you we should've killed him when we had the chance. We need to kill him now. He got you into this mess."

Dean shakes his head. "We needed him," he says. "We used him."

"He used you, Dean," Sam's angry now, furious really, when he thinks about Crowley. "Totally got what he wanted, got you to do his dirty work for him. He knew it would turn you into this -- he was hoping for it so he could use you even more. Make you his bitch."

Dean's eyes flash black for a second, and Sam catches the gasp that rises in his chest just in time. 

"Yeah, well, that worked out real well for him," Dean scoffs. "Asshole bet on the wrong horse. Nobody traps a Winchester that easy."

"And that's another thing, Dean," Sam goes on. "How about all the stuff we know about trapping and exorcising demons? What happens if we're in the middle of a hunt and somebody dumps a bucket of holy water on you? Or you walk right into a devil's trap?"

Dean shakes his head. "Doesn't work on me," he says. "I'm here, ain't I? And I know you got this place warded up the wahzoo 'cause I was the one who made sure of that.

Sam's feeling mocked, feeling cornered and panicked, and he's suddenly sure he has to shake Dean up, force him to take Sam seriously, so he says the thing that's burning at the back of his mind, the thing he knows he shouldn't say.

"A demon killed our mother, Dean," he breathes. "Made the deal with Dad that took his life. Dad's in Hell right now because a demon made a deal with him to save your life."

He knows he's pulled out the heavy ammo this time, and he feels a twinge of guilt as Dean's cocky self-assurance leaves him in a rush, like he's been punched in the gut. His face closes down and he gets this pinched look, stares back at Sam like he can't believe Sam would say something so hurtful. Sam feels himself start to shake, guilt welling up in him, but he forces himself to stare back, to hold Dean's gaze because he needs Dean to see, to acknowledge what he's become, what he's asking of Sam.

The old Dean would pretend he wasn't hurt, or would make some angry "Fuck you!" response, would probably haul off and just hit Sam at this point because his brain couldn't come up with a verbal come-back that could possibly match Sam's low blow.

Instead, this Dean shakes his head, raises his finger at Sam and smiles, and it's as close to a leer as anything Sam has ever seen on his brother's face.

"No, Dad's not there, Sam," he says, laying one hand on the table as he leans in to make his point. "I checked. You can't pin that one on me."

He holds Sam's gaze for another moment, scaring the shit out of Sam because it's creepy and hot at the same time, and Dean means for it to be that way, Sam's sure. He's making his point, showing Sam he's still the boss, still the one in control.

Because Sam can't make him feel guilty any more. About anything.

"Eat your breakfast, Sam," Dean says then, straightening and lowering his eyes, backing off. "We got work to do."

Then he's gone.

* *  
The job is in Beaverton, Oregon, in an old school building, where the ghosts of two former teachers are terrorizing the faculty and administration, although they seem to be leaving the students alone.

It's a straight-forward salt-and-burn, and when it's done and Sam and Dean hit the road again, Dean suggests they swing by the Grand Canyon, take the scenic route on their way back to Kansas. And Sam finds himself agreeing because -- because working with Dean again feels so good, so right.

So now it's sunset and they're leaning against the hood of the car at this lookout point at Crater Lake, sipping their beers in silent companionship, and when Sam lifts his beer he rubs Dean's shoulder. He smiles to himself because the job went well -- they managed to save some lives, he's pretty sure.

And Dean didn't go all black-eyed demon on him, didn't kill anyone, in fact.

Dean was just Dean, doing the job like he always did, letting Sam do the talking when they dealt with civilians, Dean taking over when it was cops. The cursed object turns out to be a school-owned laptop that various teachers are checking out and taking home with them, unwittingly bringing the wrath of the two vengeful spirits home too. It's an odd choice, since usually spirits and electronics don't mix well -- but then Dean discovers that the teachers were running a child-pornography ring, which was what finally got them both killed in the first place, and they were using the laptop to transfer files to their customers.

"Nasty business," Dean observes when he explains his discovery to Sam. "This shit is pure evil. Talk about your human monsters. Hell reserves a special spot for pedophiles and child pornographers, I can promise you that."

When he said that it sent a shiver up Sam's spine; it occurred to Sam that Dean could visit Hell anytime he wanted now, and maybe after Sam's asleep tonight Dean would do just that, spend a little quality time with the sons-o'-bitches who use kids like that, who work in schools to gain better access to their prey and gain their trust.

It makes Dean's situation -- this thing that's happened to Dean -- seem much less horrific by comparison.

"See, Sam?" Dean seems so be saying. "I'm not like this. This is real evil. Can't you see the difference?"

And now, brushing his shoulder against his brother's, watching the sunset turn the sky a thousand shades of orange and red and purple -- now Sam lets himself relax a little, lets himself enjoy the moment, his brother's heat and companionable silence, the shared satisfaction of a job well done.

He's missed this, Sam realizes. This was their life together before it got so messed up with the angels and the apocalypse and all those trips to Hell and Purgatory. They had the open road ahead of them, the sun at their backs, the anticipation of the next hunt, the freedom to choose where they went next.

The crappy motels, bad food, unresolved sexual tension --

Sam slides his eyes in his brother's direction, surreptitiously watching as Dean brings the bottle to his lips, sucks in a mouthful of beer, swallows. He feels his cheeks heat, lowers his eyes before Dean catches him staring.

But Dean knows. Maybe he can feel Sam's body temperature rise. He puts his hand on Sam's thigh, slides it between his legs, pulls Sam's right leg flush against his, fingers the inseam of Sam's jeans.

Sam's instantly hard as a rock, needs to shift a little to ease the sudden tightness in his groin.

He feels Dean staring at him, lifts his eyes to his brother's, admires the smirk firmly planted on his full lips, his eyes at half-mast and dark.

"You want me to fuck you on the hood of the Impala, Sam?" Dean drawls in his deepest voice, squeezing Sam's thigh as he says it.

Sam has to close his eyes, struggles with his building orgasm, suddenly sure he could come just from the sound of Dean's voice, just with his hand on his leg and pressed up against him like this.

In a public place.

Fuck.

Dean's shameless, doesn't give a shit as he reaches up to pull Sam's face down so he can kiss him, sloppy and hard. He puts his beer down, and Sam's too, then he turns so that he's standing between Sam's legs, kissing him as he pushes against him, Sam half sitting on the hood of the car so that Dean's taller now, leading in the dance of tongues and hands and grinding hips.

He pushes Sam backwards so he's laying on his back across the car and Dean can kiss down his neck, dip his tongue in the hollow at the base of his throat, push his hands up under Sam's shirts till he finds bare skin. Sam gasps as Dean slides his hands up his chest, rubs his thumbs over Sam's nipples, all the while licking and sucking at his neck, his jaw.

"Come on," Dean murmurs against his skin, hauling him up to sitting with fistfuls of Sam's shirts, tugging at them. "Take these off. Gotta get you naked."

Sam obeys, pulling the shirts off over his head and tossing them aside while Dean unbuttons his jeans, slides the zipper down carefully, pulls out Sam's bursting dick.

"Commando day, huh?" Dean smirks. "Good thing I went slow."

Dean slides his hands around Sam's ass, inside his jeans, pushing them down as he does, as Sam kicks off his shoes, and with Dean's help he's finally free of every last item of clothing. Sam's trying to catch Dean's mouth but Dean pushes him back so he's spread out on his back across the hood, and Sam opens his arms wide, lets his legs fall open too so Dean can have the full effect he's so obviously going for.

Sure enough, Dean steps back once he's got Sam laid out where he wants him, just looks, heated gaze traveling from Sam's face down over his chest and lower, then back up again.

"Gorgeous, Sammy," he murmurs admiringly. "Fuckin' gorgeous."

The car's engine has cooled now, and there's just the feel of smooth, cool metal against his backside, and Sam can only imagine how hot this is for Dean -- Sam's naked and spread out on the car Dean loves -- and once he's got Sam good and ready and starts fucking into him, Dean still fully clothed and standing on the ground as he rocks into Sam's body -- Sam imagines it's like he's fucking the car itself. Sam can see in the hooded, flushed concentration of Dean's face there's something primal about it that he can't really understand, but he knows better than to mock it. The car is the only home they knew for over twenty-five years, and even now it's the only thing left of their parents, of their messed-up childhoods, of the life they created for themselves when they grew up. It's a symbol of security and freedom simultaneously, and as Sam feels Dean's orgasm building, feels his own ready to pump forth, he has the sense of this moment as a kind of consummation of this new relationship -- this new place in their lives that encompasses everything they were to each other before but has also become something more, that somehow they've moved ahead into uncharted territory and this is a new reality for them, together. And the car is a part of that, so this is only right, only fitting -- 

"Stop thinking, Sam," Dean orders gruffly as he thrusts harder, tangling one hand in Sam's hair and pulling his head back, burying his face in Sam's neck. He sinks his teeth in and Sam cries out, his whole body tensing, staring up at stars as Dean comes in his ass and his own orgasm courses through him, the world temporarily going black.

Dean stays collapsed heavily on top of him for a few minutes after, and Sam becomes aware of something metal pressing into his back. He shifts to lessen the discomfort and Dean starts; he's almost fallen asleep on top of Sam, on top of the car. Now he stirs, pressing a soft kiss into Sam's neck, easing himself out of Sam's body with a muttered grunt that almost sounds like an apology. He backs up and pulls his tee-shirt off, tosses it onto Sam's belly as he puts himself away and zips his jeans.

"Don't get protein on the car," he mutters darkly. "Stuff can take the paint off."

Sam uses Dean's shirt to wipe himself off, then dresses himself as Dean finds another black tee-shirt, slips smoothly into the driver's seat to wait for him.

They don't speak as they drive on into the night together, but when Sam slips a hand onto Dean's thigh Dean closes his hand over it and keeps it there.


	5. Chapter 5

Late that night, close to morning, Sam wakes with a start.

The motel bed is empty, of course. Dean doesn't sleep. After almost a week Sam is starting to get used to it, although Dean's absence makes it harder for Sam to sleep. Dean always stays with him till he falls asleep, but Sam swears he can tell when he leaves; can feel the sudden cold even from way down in deep slumber.

He misses watching Dean sleep. It was his guiltiest pleasure in the old days, the only time he could stare without Dean sniping at him for being a girl. And Dean's face in sleep was preternaturally beautiful -- full lips parted, long lashes splayed out in stark relief against his pale cheeks, brow finally relaxed in sleep as it almost never was when Dean was awake. Dean looked young and vulnerable when he slept, and it brought out all of Sam's protective instincts. Made Sam's chest ache with love.

Now he gets up to go to the bathroom, trying to ignore his loneliness. He loiters there after he's done, reluctant to return to the empty bed, and is just turning to leave the room when Castiel appears.

"Damn it, Cas," Sam starts, but Castiel puts his finger to his lips, reaches up and puts his hand on Sam's shoulder.

Suddenly they're standing in a church -- it's dark and the church is empty, but Sam still feels ridiculous in his sweatpants and tee-shirt, his shock at the sudden transport only slightly lessened by his relief that at least he put some clothes on before he went into the bathroom.

"What the hell, Cas?" he demands, whispering out of habit, although he can't think for the life of him what he thinks he's disturbing. A church is just a building, right?

"This is hallowed ground, Sam," Castiel reminds him. "We can speak freely here. Dean cannot find us."

"This had better be good, Cas," Sam says, pushing a hand through his messy hair.

"You can fix him, Sam," Castiel says, getting right to the point. "I can help you. It won't be easy, but we can capture him, immobilize him temporarily. You need to fill a syringe with your blood, inject him so that he becomes weak enough for me to hold him, to bring him here."

Sam frowns. "Why here?"

"This church was built on an old Indian burial ground," Castiel explains. "There is ancient magic here, strong enough even to hold a demon of Dean's stature. Once we get him here we can keep him weakened with your blood while we perform the cure."

"How do you know my blood is still pure?" Sam asks. "You said he was probably poisoning me with demon blood."

It pains Sam to think that any of his feelings for Dean might not be real, might be simply a result of the influence of his contaminated blood.

Castiel is looking at him with that deep, penetrating gaze of his, and Sam feels a shiver go up his spine. There was a time when Castiel looked at Dean like that. Sam always assumed Castiel was in love with Dean, in whatever way angels experienced being in love. It had never occurred to him that Castiel might have similar feelings for Sam, especially now that Sam is "pure," which is just all kinds of weird and Sam isn't sure how he feels about that at all.

"Your blood is still clean, Sam," Castiel says now, his voice serious and deep. "For reasons I cannot explain, Dean has not given you any of his blood. Yet."

He frowns, puzzling out a reason for that as Sam closes his eyes and breathes a sigh of relief.

"I'm not certain I understand why he has not attempted to turn you," Castiel says. "From everything I know of Dean, not to mention what I know of demon nature, I assumed he would want you to join him in his new immortality. And I assumed that would have happened by now. I'm not sure I understand what he's doing."

Sam shakes his head, smiling a little.

"I think I do," he says softly. "He's giving me the choice. He wants it to be up to me. He won't force it."

Castiel considers that for a moment, then nods.

"He's letting you have your freedom for a little longer," he agrees. "But Sam, you must understand, this is part of his strategy as a demon. You have experienced this level of manipulation before, with Ruby. This is how demons operate."

Sam stiffens, suddenly angry.

"That's not what this is, Cas," he insists. "Not even close. Dean is nothing like Ruby. He wants me to accept him as he is now, wants me to be okay with him this way."

Castiel shakes his head sadly. "I wish I could believe that, Sam," he says, "But that's not all that's happening here. Even if he hasn't tried to change you yet, to corrupt your soul, he will. That's what demons do. He cannot be other than he is."

It's Sam's turn to shake his head.

"You're wrong, Cas," he says fiercely. "Dean knows me. Knows I have more issues with possession and free will than most people. He wouldn't try to take that from me because he knows that's a sure way to lose me.

"Maybe I can't trust him," Sam goes on. "Not completely. But he's my brother, Cas, and I understand him. I know him. He's showing me how this can work. And I -- I'm starting to think maybe it can."

Castiel considers this, his expression growing darker, and Sam feels all the anger drain from his body as he recognizes the pained look reflected in Castiel's blue eyes.

"If you continue down this path, Sam, I will be unable to help you," Castiel says finally. "You will be lost to me. I will lose you both."

There is something almost like human desperation in Castiel's words, and his voice sounds pleading. Sam has the sudden urge to hug the angel, to reassure him.

"I'm telling you, Cas, he's trying," Sam insists. "He's really trying to control it. He's not trying to hide what he is; he's told me what he can do now, what his abilities are. He's worked hard to get his demon urges under control, and now he's making a real effort to show me he can keep doing that. I have to give him a chance. I have to believe in him. I wish -- I wish you could too."

Castiel is shaking his head, looking away from Sam toward the front of the church, at the crucifix with its suffering human god. He clenches his jaw, another human gesture, and Sam waits, not sure exactly what he's hoping for from the angel, whether he wants Castiel to acquiesce or not.

Then Castiel turns back and his face is a mask of control and determination again.

"I will not attempt to contact you again, Sam," he says. "If you change your mind, you should find hollowed ground and pray, and I will come. I will always come. But if you follow Dean into this and become a demon as well I will no longer hear you."

He turns away again, but not before Sam sees what look like tears in the angel's eyes, and his turning away seems so much like the human fight for control of the waterworks that Sam reaches out instinctively and touches his arm, moves closer.

"Cas," he says softly, and Cas turns his face up and yes, his eyes are sparkling with tears and Sam's chest fills with warmth.

"Sam, I -- " Castiel stutters. "I care too much, I think. You and Dean are so important to me, and this -- this is -- "

"It's painful," Sam nods. "I know. That's what it's like when you care about people. It hurts sometimes."

Castiel stares up at Sam, parts his lips.

"Sam, I love -- "

"Shhh," Sam puts his finger up, barely touching Castiel's parted lips. "We don't use that word with each other in this family, Cas, you know that."

Castiel's gaze softens and he nods, closing his lips. Sam cups the angel's face for a moment, holding his arm with his other hand, and Sam's aware that it's intimate, it's probably the most touching he and Castiel have ever done. He wonders briefly if he could push this, lean in just a little and find out if Castiel's lips are as soft as they look, if they taste as good as they felt when he touched them.

Then Castiel blinks and the moment passes. Sam pats Castiel's cheek and releases him, stepping back.

"I should go," Sam says, trying to smile reassuringly at the angel and failing miserably. "He may come back and wonder where I am."

Castiel nods once, reaches up to touch Sam's forehead.

"Goodbye, Sam."

* *  
"Hey there."

Sam's back in the motel bathroom, early morning light in the small window, and Dean's already there, probably has been for awhile. He's dressed in his usual black jeans and tee-shirt, looks clean and crisp and makes Sam feel like a slob.

"Where ya been, Sammy?"

Sam doesn't even hesitate, knows that if he does he'll never be able to say it.

"Castiel needed to talk to me," he says. "Alone."

"Yeah?" Dean's smirk turns hard. "Getting a little extra on the side with the angel, are ya, Sam?"

Sam blushes to the roots of his hair, shifts nervously, knows he looks guilty as sin 'cause Dean's eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

"No!" Sam protests. "What -- no! Dean, you're the one he -- God, no!"

"So what, then?" Dean asks. "You two plotting to turn me human again?"

Sam flushes with indignation, shifts his feet, locks gazes with Dean in what he hopes is a look of stern self-confidence.

"Actually, I was trying to convince him that you're okay," Sam says defensively. "He seemed to think you might be trying to turn me into a demon, and I told him you were just trying to be a good hunter again."

Dean considers this for a moment, staring intently into Sam's eyes, looking for signs that Sam's lying to him.

Finally he backs off, nods and presses his lips together, satisfied.

"Huh," he comments. "Guess he wasn't too happy to hear you say that."

"He cried," Sam acknowledges, and Dean's eyebrows shoot up again.

"He figures he's lost us both," Sam goes on. "He cares, Dean. He cares about us."

"He's like a fuckin' puppy, always under foot," Dean says, and Sam shrugs his agreement.

"Like you said yourself not too long ago, he's just a dorky little guy."

Dean raises his finger, takes a step closer so they're almost touching.

"Don't do that again, Sam," he warns. "I couldn't find you. You gotta know, there's things that might try to get to me by taking you, and I can't have you disappearing on me like that."

Sam's spine is tingling with fear again, and he feels his smile falter.

'Dean, I -- "

Dean cuts him off with a bruising kiss, pulling Sam's face down and yanking his body against Dean's in one fluid movement, devouring his mouth hungrily and a little desperately, hands moving possessively in Sam's hair, on Sam's ass.

"On the bed," Dean commands against Sam's mouth when he pulls back enough to say it. "Now."

This time when Dean fucks into him Sam feels cherished, feels Dean's fear of losing him, feels his own fragility and vulnerability, as if he's a small child and Dean is burdened with taking care of him and keeping him safe.

Because he is. That's exactly what this is, Sam thinks as his orgasm builds, as he watches Dean's face tense with his own climax. Dean is protecting him, being big brother on steroids because he's the stronger and more powerful again, just like when they were kids.

So unfair, Sam thinks as he watches Dean come, watches him hold his breath and clench every muscle in his face and neck, watches him still and silent for a moment as his body goes rigid, feels Dean's dick twitch and pump inside him as Dean releases.

It's just not right, he thinks as he lets it all go, aware of Dean watching his face as he comes, hears Dean murmur.

"That's it, little brother. That's it. Come on. I gotcha."

Dean's lips are pressed to his neck when Sam's upstairs brain comes back on line, kissing softly against the marks he's made there earlier. It tickles a little and Sam lets out a low chuckle, feels Dean's lips smile against his skin in response.

"You okay, Sammy?" he murmurs.

"Yeah, it's all good," Sam answers. "Gonna be sore for a week."

"That's my boy," Dean smiles, tucking his head under Sam's chin and laying his cheek against Sam's chest, over his heart. "Need to get you a new anti-possession tat."

Sam doesn't say anything. He's been putting it off, ignored it at first out of sheer stubborn bravado -- as if anything would dare to possess him after all he's been through. Then, when Dean died and disappeared, it was just one of those things Sam let slide because it didn't matter anymore.

Sam thought about it briefly when Dean showed up, not that he was worried Dean might try to possess him -- god, he knows his brother better than that! -- but because he was afraid Dean would take it the wrong way, like Sam was afraid of him or something.

And now -- it's another reminder that Dean's worried about him, fears for his safety. Feels responsible for his little brother, especially now that they' re hunting again.

For the first time in years, Sam wonders if he's a liability.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything's okay until it isn't. In this chapter Dean and Sam discover that finding the Grand Canyon isn't so easy. Chaos usually ensues on the road to intended paradise. So is it always, with the Winchesters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this thing but still need to edit before posting, maybe in two or three more chapters.
> 
> Thanks for hanging in there, wonderful readers!!

The next day, shit hits the fan.

Dean finds them another job, this time in Ashland, Oregon, just a few hours south, on the California border. It's a cut-and-dried case of werewolf attacks at first glance, vics left in a city park with their hearts ripped out, cops thinking they're looking for a wild animal.

The town is eerily quiet when they roll in late in the afternoon. It's a tourist town known for a world-famous Shakespeare festival, and even with the busy summer season already past, there are year-round activities that should've been attracting a sizable population, not to mention the town's regular residents.

But when they stop to eat at an average little home-grown hole-in-the-wall called Mac's Place, it's empty.

"Where is everyone?" Sam asks the tired-looking waitress who takes their order -- Classic Turkey Dinner for Sam, glass of water for Dean, beers for both -- she shakes her head.

"Latest murder has everybody spooked," she says. "People think whoever's doing it isn't human."

She glances over at the kitchen for a moment, then turns back to Sam, lowers her voice. "Some people think the cops are in on it," she whispers.

"Murders?" Dean clarifies. "I thought it was animal attacks."

The waitress -- name-tag says her name is Sheila -- shakes her head.

"That's what the cops are saying," she whispers. "But what kind of an animal rips somebody's heart out and leaves the rest of the body? No way."

"And you think whoever's doing this isn't human?" Sam asks. "Why would you think that?"

Sheila glances back over her shoulder toward the kitchen again, but her boss or whoever she's afraid might see her talking to customers isn't visible.

"They rolled into town about a week ago," she says. "Big carload of men from Portland. They don't eat, they don't sleep. And their eyes are black. Solid black. No irises or nothin'. Killings started happening right after they got here. You do the math."

Sam and Dean exchange glances. Dean raises his eyebrows.

"And you've seen these men?" Sam asks.

Sheila nods. "They came in here first thing, asking about two guys in a long black car. Wanted to know if I'd seen them."

Sam feels a bolt of shock go through his body, knows Dean's experiencing the same thing. He suddenly wishes they could slide under the table and just disappear.

But of course Sheila can't see the car from this angle, is way too wrapped up in her story, in the thrill of getting to share it with the first out-of-town customers she's seen for awhile, and it never occurs to her to recall to mind the description of the Winchesters that the black-eyed men gave her a week ago.

Until it does.

Sam can see the moment her brain registers their appearance, takes in his long hair, Dean's modified crew cut, their relative heights.

"Hey," she says. "You guys don't drive a long black sedan, do you?"

"Nope," Dean lies smoothly. "But we'll have those beers now, if you don't mind."

"And we'll get that turkey special to go," Sam adds.

After Sheila shuffles off to take care of their order Sam looks questions at his brother.

"What are you thinking, Sam?" Dean asks. "You think I've got a posse of demons on my ass?"

"Do you?" Sam says. "You do something I should know about?"

"Nothin' I'm proud enough to share with you," Dean snaps.

"Okay, so what's this about then?" Sam demands. "Why would a carload of demons come to this town looking for us, then kill five people ritualistically and possess the local cops?"

Sheila returns with the beers and assurances that Sam's meal will be ready in just another minute.

Dean takes a long pull on his beer and Sam watches, wondering again how it's possible for Dean to still be able to drink alcohol but to never touch a bacon cheeseburger. Seems so arbitrary somehow.

Dean sets his beer down, looks at Sam in silence for a minute.

"I guess we're just gonna have to find out," Dean says. "Looks to me like somebody wants us here. My guess is, the murders are a lure."

"So you're thinking this is a trap," Sam clarifies. "For us."

"Looks that way, Sammy," Dean agrees.

"Well in that case, we better be ready," Sam notes, pursing his lips tightly.

Dean's lips curl up into his signature smirk and his eyes flash black for a minute, sending a shockwave of fear and lust up Sam's spine.

"Bring it, baby," Dean snarls darkly, and Sam looks away, fighting the urge to shiver.

 

* *

When they get outside it's already getting dark. The street is as deserted as it was when they went into the diner, only now they're on high alert, pumped full of adrenaline and primed for an attack. They move in synchronicity, as always, but also slightly turned so they're back to back, shoulders rubbing with each step. Sam has his demon blade tucked inside his jacket, in the breast pocket, and he knows Dean's got the First Blade ready, so they're good.

They've just rounded the corner to the car when it happens.

The demons are all around it, lounging and slumming and obviously lying in wait -- and one of them is clearly trying to pry the driver's side window open with a bent coat-hanger -- and Dean goes positively ballistic.

"Get off my car, you motherfuckin' assholes!"

It's a battle cry worthy of the King of England, and Sam doesn't pause, follows Dean into the breach without a moment's hesitation.

He holds his own for at least five minutes, manages to take three demons down with his blade, exchanging a quick look with Dean as they turn back-to-back again to face the second wave of attackers, another ten demons running at them out of fucking nowhere --

Then it's like some kind of alarm bell went off, because demons are flooding out of doorways and down the street at them from every direction, and Sam's dropping them one or two at a time and he knows Dean's doing the same but they just keep coming. Sam's arms and shoulders ache -- hell, he's sore all over but the adrenaline keeps him moving, keeps him going through the motions, and he has this wild thought that if they can just get to the car they can get out of here because there's just too damn many of them and their only hope is to flee.

The moment one of them gets a hand on him Sam knows he'd done. The demon pulls, hard, and Sam's yanked forward, away from Dean, into a crowd of grabbing hands and snarling faces and he panics, slashes wildly, kills a couple more before they're all over him, pulling him down, swarming over him. Hands grab the hand holding his demon blade and it's yanked away from him. They're dragging him, holding his arms so he can't fight back, hands in his hair holding his head back as something covers his face. He hears Dean scream then, loud and long and full of rage and anguish -- but Sam's passing out from lack of oxygen, his body covered with demons, some of whom are landing blows as the others hold him so Sam's vaguely aware that he's bleeding, losing blood --

He's losing consciousness, sure this is it, finally overcome by an army of Hell's minions, pretty damn sure he'll be going back there, probably for good this time. His last conscious thought is of Dean, how he wishes he's had time to tell Dean how grateful he was for everything he'd done for him. How he knows what a sacrifice it was for Dean, giving up all chance at a normal life so many times so he could take care of Sam, so he could be there for him growing up, then giving up his own life for Sam's as adults -- sacrificing yet more chances at normalcy so he could fix Sam when he lost his soul -- then most recently saving Sam again when he would have died from the trials that Dean wanted to take on in the first place, always putting Sam first --

It's really true that life flashes before your eyes just before you die. Sam's brain is flashing back over a million memories as he's passing out, and all he wants is a last chance to say the thing he should've said to Dean years ago.

He's aware of someone screaming, thinks he hears his name, thinks he feels the hands holding him loosening, letting him go.

Then the thing covering his face is pulled away and familiar hands are touching his face, a familiar voice washes over him, He's got his eyes open and his vision is blurry -- there's blood on his face, he realizes, dripping into his eyes -- but he can see the familiar shape of Dean's face hovering over him, hear his voice murmuring Sam's name over and over -- has enough consciousness left to be aware he's safe in Dean's arms again.

Then everything goes black.


	7. Chapter 7

He's aware of pain. His body is a pincushion that's been stuck one too many times. He aches in muscles he didn't even know he had. His head throbs with it, and he's sure he should still be unconscious, or in a coma, with the way his head feels -- swollen, his brain sloshing around inside like a loose bowling ball, slamming into pieces of itself as it rolls along.

"Sam? Sammy? Hey, buddy, I gotcha, you're gonna be okay," Dean's voice is an anchor, a life net in Sam's sea of pain. He opens one eye -- the other one seems to be swollen shut -- and watches Dean's face crinkle into a smile.

"That's it," Dean murmurs, "That's it, Sam, you're okay. Gonna get you to a hospital, get you fixed up. You're gonna be fine."

It's the familiar babbling Sam's done himself too often, and Sam knows it for what it is -- the barely concealed panic of a brother watching the love of his life die in his arms --

And suddenly Sam is absolutely convinced he will not die, no fucking way. Not again. Not like this.

Then Sam's aware that there's someone else there, someone dark and short and nasty. And he's standing just out of sight, at an angle, staring down at the brothers with that sardonic smile of his.

And he's saying something.

"You're going to need to use that special blood of yours to save him."

Crowley's English voice is taunting Dean, and Sam's minimal awareness allows him to feel a shot of anger at Crowley's audacity.

"Fuck you," Dean answers fiercely, voice shaking with rage. "Gonna kill you next."

"You think I did this?" Crowley drawls. "I told you, Dean, there are dozens of factions in Hell now, thanks to you and your rebel-without-a-clue desertion. You know demons, Dean. They need their leader. They need to follow orders. Your refusal to accept your rightful place as my chief of staff has created a leadership gap, and somebody's gonna try to fill it. These demons stupidly believed they could get you to come home if they just eliminated the reason for your desertion in the first place. Namely, your brother.

"But I know you better than that, Dean. I know you've only been trying to recruit Sam. I know what you really want, that having your brother by your side is the primary goal. You've been grooming him this past week, since your return, and now all you have to do is give him what he needs to join you. He's ready, you'll see. He'll be more than happy to give up his humanity for you. It'll be like taking candy from a baby."

"I won't," Dean spits out. "He needs to decide for himself. I won't do that to him."

Crowley sighs. "Ah, Winchesters and their idiotic notions of free will. You're a demon, Dean. Demons don't ask nicely, demons take what they want."

"Not this demon," Dean growls. "Not when it's my brother."

"Ah, yes," Crowley sighs. "Better to serve in Heaven than to rule in Hell. Been there, done that, bought the tee-shirt. But you do realize Sam's purified blood means he's got a one-way ticket upstairs when his life ends here. And last time I checked Heaven doesn't hold visiting hours. So you let his soul go there, you can kiss your chances of seeing him again goodbye. For ever."

Crowley takes a deep breath, lets it out slow.

"Eternity is a long time, Dean," he says, voice soft, almost sympathetic. "And you know you can't end it; the Mark won't let you. Even if you manage to pass the Mark on, get somebody to destroy you, you know where you'll end up. And it won't be with Sam."

He takes another long breath, exhales.

"So you'd better bite the bullet, mate, and accept your fate. Less painful that way, seems to me. Give Sammy a little of the good stuff and you know it'll all be fine again. Winchesters together, like it was always meant to be. Kings of Destiny. Together forever. Peace on Earth, amen."

Dean leans over Sam, closer, so that Sam can almost see the expression in his eyes, can almost count the freckles on his nose.

Damn. Why is it always the little things that matter when you're dying?

Not dying, Sam reminds himself. I am not dying. That is not happening today.

"Hold on, Sam," Dean whispers, and Sam does, closes his eyes as sudden waves of nausea overwhelms even the pain, disorients him to the point where he feels he's flying, clasped close against Dean's chest and Christ -- there must be blood everywhere, all over Dean too -- but Sam's flying, or at least he thinks maybe he's flying, and it's like when they were kids and he was Batman and he leaped off that roof because Dean did it, because Dean was Superman. But everybody knows Batman can't fly so what the hell was he doing --

Sam becomes slowly aware that he's inside a building, that he's still pressed up against his brother's body but there's stone beneath him, stone walls around him, a vaulted, shadowy ceiling above him.

Then he realizes where he is, and even in his half-conscious state it rattles him.

They're in a church. Dean brought Sam to a church.

And they're on the dais, in front of the altar, and as Sam looks up, over Dean's head, he sees the crucifix.

It's that suffering human god again, he thinks with what little oxygen his brain has left, knowing he's loopy and half-dreaming anyway.

Then he feels pressure against his mouth, realizes with a shock amongst all the shocks that Dean's kissing him -- pressing his lips gently since Sam's so sore and hurt everywhere, even there, where the blood is bubbling up between his lips and Dean's tongue is there, lapping as he kisses Sam's lips, slow and tender and careful because Dean knows it hurts --

Then Dean's pulling back, letting go, and Sam can see the blood on his mouth, on Dean's full, plush lips --

"Cas, I know you're here," Dean says, running his tongue over his lips, licking away the blood.

It should surprise Sam, after what Castiel told him, that Dean could be here, praying to angels.

"Hello, Dean," the familiar voice, deep and resonant with power, fills Sam's senses, and Sam is swept away on a wave of relief.

Castiel came. He's here.

"Okay, Cas," Sam hears Dean say, because he's drifting again, out of it with pain. "You know why I'm here. Now fix him."

Castiel says nothing, and Sam's aware of Castiel moving closer, stopping when he's close enough to touch, looking down at Sam, expression sorrowful and serious.

"Hey," Sam manages, before his lungs fill with fluid and he can't choke out a coherent sound to save his life, just coughs blood for a few minutes while Castiel watches and Dean cries -- fuckin' cries!

"Fuck, Cas, you can do something," Dean sobs desperately.

"Is this what you want, Sam?" Castiel asks softly. "I could take you to Heaven. You could be with your family there. Your mother. Your father."

Sam manages to focus enough to shake his head.

"Dean," he chokes out, coughing shallowly, suddenly aware that he's drowning.

Panic wells in his chest as he struggles to breathe, can't. It's terrible -- this is unbearable, and he's had pain before. Lots of it. But he's never been awake for his own death before. And this is the definition of sucky.

He's so far gone he doesn't even feel Castiel's fingers on his forehead. Just barely registers the moment the pain goes away, the choking in his chest clears and he's gasping, taking long, sobbing breaths of air and just sucking it in.

His eyes are clear -- the blood is gone, and his vision is restored. He's rolled onto his side, and now he's pushing himself up on one arm, still taking deep breaths, still pulling sweet oxygen into his body and he's never been so grateful to be able to do it.

Dean's there, kneeling next to him, hand slipping through his hair, cupping his face.

There's blood all over Dean. Sam's blood. His hands are sticky with it. It's on his face, in his hair. Reminds Sam of the way he looked the last time Sam saw him human, the day Dean died.

And he's pretty sure he didn't imagine it. He's pretty sure Dean kissed him. Ingested his blood.

Sam nods his reassurance at Dean, watches the laugh lines around his eyes fold together as he smiles back, relief and gratitude mingling with worry. Dean takes a deep, shuddering breath, sucks back his sobs and wipes his arm across his face, smearing it with blood and tears.

"Okay," Dean says. "Okay, Sam."

He glances up at Castiel, and Sam realizes the angel has been standing there the whole time, watching, his gaze trained on Sam. He still can't look at Dean full on, but he glances at him when Dean speaks.

"Thanks, Cas," Dean says.

Castiel looks uncomfortable, shifts his feet awkwardly the way a human would when he's feeling guilty about something.

Or when he's doing his best to avoid facing his own feelings.

"I didn't do it for you," Castiel says. "I did it for Sam."

Sam and Dean exchange glances and Sam pushes himself all the way up so he's sitting, looking up at Castiel with Dean still kneeling beside him.

"Thanks, Cas," he says.

Castiel nods grimly as Dean helps Sam to his feet, 'cause he's feeling pretty weak and wobbly from shock, his body not yet fully aware that it isn't in extreme pain and dying anymore.

"I have something I gotta do," Dean tells him. "You hang out here with Cas. You'll be safe here."

"Wait -- what? No," Sam argues. "You're leaving?"

"I have to take care of something," Dean says.

"Take me with you," Sam grabs Dean's arm, needing to hold onto him. Needing him. Not liking the grim expression on his face.

"I can't, Sam," Dean growls. "Where I'm going, you can't come."

Hell. He's going to Hell.

"What're you going to do, kill Crowley?"

Dean smirks, shakes his head. "Nah, I need him to run the place," Dean says. "He's a natural bureaucrat. Best boss Hell could have. No, he just needs a little back-up, that's all. Gotta get his troops back in line."

"Oh, so you're Crowley's hired gun," Sam accuses. "Gonna go clean his playpen for him."

Dean raises his eyebrows, lets his eyes flash black for a minute.

Sam drops Dean's arm like a shot and stumbles back, almost running into Castiel, who's moved up beside him.

"I'm nobody's anything, Sam," Dean growls fiercely. "You saw what happened back there. Crowley's got a rebellion on his hands. Most of those demons were followers of Abaddon, and she promised them end-of-the-world chaos, like what they did to that town. Well newsflash, Sam: I'm a master demon-killer now. It's my job. And these goons need to know they can't just walk into a town, possess all the humans, then kill my brother and get away with it."

Dean clenches his fists, glaring from Sam to Castiel.

"Keep him here," he orders Castiel. "I'll be right back."

Then he's gone.

"Dean!" Sam stomps forward into the empty space where Dean stood until a moment ago. "Damn it."

He whirls on Castiel, and his hands are clenched into fists. He needs to hit something. Badly.

Sam hates this. Hates this feeling of near-obsolescence. He's worse than useless to Dean like this. He's like a real ball-and-chain and a total liability. If Dean has to worry about his safety all the time they can't really hunt together. If the balance of power between them is so great that Dean has to leave him on hallowed ground while he goes off on a hunt by himself --

This is never gonna work. Sam's not a partner in this. He's a child.

In fact that's exactly how it feels, which is why it's so familiar. It's like all those times Dean and Dad went off together when Sam was little, and they left Sam in the car with strict instructions to "Stay put!" And then when he was a little older, they left him in the motel with food and the t.v. and they might be gone overnight but he was to "Stay here!" with the doors and windows bolted and salted.

He hated that. Hated it every goddamn time. Needed to be old enough and big enough to help, to go along.

Remembers vividly the first time they let him. He was fourteen, still small for his age, still pretty useless and helpless, but squirly and fast, so Dad was confident he could duck and run if necessary. It made him feel so proud, he even wrote about it in a school paper the next year.

Now it's like he's gone back to being that little kid again. Worse than useless really because those things were targeting him for being Dean's brother, for holding Dean back.

"Jesus, Cas," he says now, "Those demons want Dean to be their leader."

Castiel lowers his eyes, and Sam sees he's got his fists clenched too. Sam's not the only one itching for a fight.

"I have to do something," Sam says, starting down the aisle to the front of the church.

A sudden thought pulls him up short and he whirls back around to face Castiel.

"I thought you said we could trap him here," Sam accuses. "I thought this was hallowed ground and it would hold him."

Castiel looks pained as he raises his face to Sam, frowning.

"I was wrong," he says. "Dean is a powerful demon. Much more powerful than we realized. It may be that the only one who can stop him is the one who created him."

"Cain?"

Castiel shakes his head.

"Cain lost much of his power when he transferred the Mark to Dean," Castiel says. "He may no longer be able, or willing, to help us."

"So who then?" Sam asks.

Castiel considers for a moment.

"Lucifer," he says darkly. "If we could get Dean to go into the cage with Lucifer -- "

"Oh no," Sam puts his hand up to cut Castiel off, horrified. "No fuckin' way. That's just ludicrous. No way would I send my brother into that cage. And obviously we're not letting Lucifer out, so just forget him. There has to be another way."

Castiel's expression softens and he looks sorrowful again.

"There might be no other way, Sam," Castiel says. "If Cain can't stop him -- "

"We have to try," Sam insists. "I'm gonna go see Cain. I know where he is, or at least where he was when Dean went to see him the first time. I'm gonna start there."

He turns to go, then turns back.

"You coming?" he asks the angel, but Castiel shakes his head.

"You're on your own this time, Sam," Castiel says. "I still have work that needs attending to in Heaven, and I don't want to see Dean again, especially when he finds out you've disobeyed his order to stay here. He will be very angry with both of us, I'm fairly certain of that."

"Well, fuck that," Sam spits. "He's not my boss, we're partners. Equals in this business. And if he thinks he can just order me around, especially now that he's lost all moral authority -- well, fuck that."

Sam whirls around and stomps down the aisle to the door, where another thought hits him.

"Did you bring your car?" he asks, turning back to Castiel again. "Can I borrow your car?"

Castiel closes his eyes for a moment, opens them again.

"The car is outside with the keys in the ignition," he says with a small nod, his eyes betraying just the hint of a smile.

Sam nods, takes off without a backwards glance.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam realizes that everything he learned about demons just doesn't really apply to his current situation, and rules are made to be broken. Again.

Sam finds Cain more easily than he had expected to. Lucifer's former first lieutenant is outside, tending his bees, when Sam pulls up in Castiel's cadillac, and when he sees the car he stops to watch Sam get out before striding across the yard to greet him, pulling off his hood and gloves so Sam could get a good look at the demon who cursed his brother.

"Sam Winchester," Cain says. "I was wondering when you'd get here."

"You gave your Mark to my brother and now he's a demon," Sam accuses abruptly and without preamble. "I need to know how to fix him."

Cain shakes his head. "There is no fixing, Sam. Dean bears the Mark until he can find someone worthy of it who is also willing to accept it from him. You know this."

"Then I'll take the Mark myself," Sam persists desperately. "Just tell me how."

Cain raises his eyebrows, considers Sam for a moment.

"You are brave," Cain comments. "Clearly your brother isn't the only worthy Winchester. But I can't help you, Sam. It's up to Dean to pass on the Mark, and somehow I think you would be last on his list of candidates."

"You offered yourself in your brother's place," Sam's feeling reckless now, panicked. "When Lucifer wanted Abel, you took his place. I can do that. I'm offering that now."

"Sam, that's not how it works," Cain shakes his head. "I'm not Lucifer. I can't make that kind of deal."

"But you worked for him," Sam insists. "You know how he did it. You know why he did it. So you can help me make the same deal. If you can't, I'll -- I'll go to Lucifer himself if I have to."

Cain is staring, narrowing his eyes as if he sees something suddenly that he hadn't seen clearly till now.

"You -- " Cain blue eyes are sharp with accusation. "You're Lucifer's vessel."

Sam takes a deep breath, braces himself, then gives a short nod.

"Yeah, that's right," he says, trying to look tougher than he feels. "He was in my head. I know how he thinks. When he did this to you, he was inflicting the ultimate punishment, separating you permanently from your brother."

"Abel's in Heaven," Cain frowns. "It's where he belongs. I can't ever go there. It's fitting."

"For who, for Abel?" Sam huffs out a breath. "You think he would have let you do this if you'd given him a choice?"

Cain shakes his head. "Lucifer was gonna possess Abel, gonna make him his personal plaything, just to spite God. Just because God loved Abel. You of all people know what that's like, Sam. I couldn't let Abel do that."

"So you made his choice for him," Sam clarifies.

"I saved him," Cain insists.

"Maybe he didn't want to be saved, if being saved meant losing you," Sam accuses hotly.

Cain smiles then, shakes his head.

"Ah, Sam, you speak like a man in love. And you see, I loved my brother, but I wasn't in love with him. You and Dean -- that's something else. You don't just die for each other, you go to Hell for the other one. But now, the only way for you to be together is for you to give up Heaven. Make the choice Abel didn't, the choice I made for him, because he wouldn't have chosen me over God. He would always choose God first.

"You can't have both, Sam. You can't be both pure and in love with a demon."

"Watch me," Sam hisses. "I'm gonna fix him, if it takes the rest of my life."

Cain shakes his head. "You'll never make it, Sam," he says. "You can't live locked in an ivory tower all your life. And Dean's need to protect you won't allow you to hunt. So what are you going to do? Drink each other's blood?"

Sam's memory flashes to Dean's mouth, smeared with his blood, and he shakes his head violently.

"Not gonna happen," he insists fiercely.

Cain shrugs. "Balance of power, Sam. You could weaken him, he could make you stronger. Of course, you drink his blood, you lose Heaven."

"You think like a demon," Sam says. "For Dean and me, there's always another way. We don't follow rules very well."

Cain smiles, watches a bee wind its way around Sam's hair, hover over his shoulder, before taking off in search of something brighter and more colorful.

"I find beekeeping to be very restful," he says, abruptly changing the subject. "The bees have no free will. All they know how to do is to work together to serve the queen, to fulfill their single purpose. They're the ultimate cooperators. Yet the product of all that mindless toil is so sweet, so perfect. Not that they're aware of that, of course. For them it's all about being a cog in a wheel. Nothing like humanity, with all its discord and sibling rivalries. So -- not restful."

He looks up at Sam, squints a little against the sun shining around Sam's head.

"You tell that brother of yours he needs to keep his promises," Cain says. "It's time for me to rest."

He turns to go, starts putting his gloves back on, then has another thought.

"I understand true love better than you think, Sam," he says. "My true love once told me I shouldn't be afraid to follow my heart, and I was stupid enough to mock her, to believe my heart was nothing but a dry, hard piece of burned-up coal.

"But she was right, Sam. She was right. The road to redemption is a hard one, but when you have love in your heart, well, that's a powerful thing."

He turns away then, and Sam watches him as he moves off across the field, fitting his hood into place as he rejoins his bees, moving like a man who knows he's walking on the moon and feels right at home there.

* *

When Sam gets back to the bunker, Dean's already there. He leans on the kitchen door frame, arms and ankles crossed, as Sam pulls a beer out of the icebox and starts making himself a sandwich. Sam ignores him, tries not to let the little hairs on his neck rise as he feels Dean's heated gaze on him as he moves around the kitchen, sits down at the table, takes a bite of his sandwich and swallows it down with a swig of beer.

"What?" he asks finally, when it becomes painfully obvious Dean isn't going to speak first.

"You left the church," Dean accuses.

Sam gives a short huff of breath.

"Yeah," he says. "Obviously."

"I told you to stay put," Dean shakes his head. "What part of 'stay there until I come get you' did you not understand, Sam?"

"Seriously?" Sam's incredulous. "You think I should've just waited for you to come get me. Like I'm five years old."

"Yeah," Dean nods. "No, I know you're not five. Ten, maybe. Definitely pre-adolescent."

Sam clenches his jaw, purses his lips, knows he's giving Dean "that look" but doesn't give a shit. He finishes his sandwich, gets up and takes his plate to the sink, turns slowly so he's facing his brother, struck again by Dean's beauty, his perfection somehow amplified in this new form, and Sam wonders how the hell that's even possible, since Dean has always been the most beautiful thing in Sam's life.

And now he's smirking a little because he can see Sam's love for him in his eyes, giving Dean the upper hand as usual.

"Look, Dean, you can't leave me locked up in a church someplace every time you need to go off on a killing spree," Sam says, leaning back on the counter behind him for support. "I'm a hunter, not a princess."

Dean's definitely smirking now.

"Oh come on, you're a little princessy," he teases. "All you need are a couple of sparkly bows in your hair and you're there."

"Shut up," Sam protests. "You know what I mean."

Dean tries to sober up, but his face won't stop smirking. He moves away from the doorway, though, closer, letting his arms swing loosely.

"You want me to take you along when I go on killing sprees," he clarifies.

"No, Dean," Sam frowns. "I want us to be partners. We hunt together, or not at all. No killing sprees. If we're gonna be hunters, then that's what we do. You don't just leave me behind while you take care of demon business."

"I'm not taking you with me to Hell," Dean warns.

"So don't go to Hell," Sam says. "Stay here. Work with me. Be with me."

Dean's gaze turns fond for a minute, then he shakes his head.

"I can't be what I'm not, Sam," he says finally.

"So be who you are, just do it as part of your job," Sam says. "I'm not saying don't use your powers or pretend you're not pumped full of demon blood. I get it. I remember how it felt to have all that power rushing through my veins. But you said it yourself, Dean; you can control it. You don't have to give into it all the time."

Dean lowers his eyes, shifts his feet, puts his hands on his hips. 

"Maybe not all the time, Sam, but the Mark won't let me just sit around playing house forever."

"So use it," Sam insists. "Use it to do your job. Just don't let it use you. That's all I'm saying. I believe in you, Dean. I think you can do this. I think you're strong enough to control it."

Dean keeps his eyes lowered, doesn't look up when he starts to speak, which is how Sam knows it's gonna be something big.

"I'm immortal now, Sam. Gonna live forever if something doesn't kill me. and I can't do it without you. I need you with me. Wherever, whatever, it's gotta be together."

Sam takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly.

"Yeah, I know," he says softly, shifting away from the counter, and now they're facing each other, only a foot apart. "Me too. But we're just gonna have to cross that bridge when we come to it. Gonna have to figure it out as we go. I can't predict how this is gonna play out -- it's not like anything that's happened before, and it looks impossible on the surface, like crazy impossible. You're a demon. I'm human. Castiel's an angel. It's not exactly business as usual."

"Sounds like a bad joke, is what it sounds like," Dean says, but he's smiling a little, looking up at Sam hopefully.

Sam smiles too, nods.

"Yeah," Sam agrees. "Yeah, I guess it does."

"So you're not gonna try to fix me after all," Dean suggests tentatively. "I don't have to worry I'm gonna get stuck with a needle full of purified Sammy when I'm least expecting it."

"As long as you don't slice your arm open and drip your demon blood into my mouth while I sleep," Sam quips. "And don't think I'm not still gonna try to fix you. I am. I'm gonna find a way. Just -- nothing involving blood drinking. Our life is not some bad episode of the Vampire Diaries."

"Thank God for small favors," Dean says, his eyes dropping to Sam's mouth as he takes another step, and now their bodies are almost touching, and Sam can feel his brother's heat.

"And we need Cas, so try to be nice to him," Sam says, pressing a hand flat against Dean's chest. "He's doing his best to adjust. It's not like every day your best friend and number one crush turns into a hell-raising master demon. Especially when it's the guy you raised from perdition."

Sam slides his hand up Dean's chest to his shoulder, pulls their bodies flush against each other as he cups the back of Dean's head with his other hand, angles in with parted lips as Dean tilts his head back and closes his eyes.

"Shut up and kiss me," Dean orders.

And Sam does, figures that's one order he doesn't mind following. He can think of a few more, but his upstairs brain is starting to get a little fuzzy as Dean's sinful lips do what they do best, and he figures it's probably time to just let it all go.

* * *  
Epilogue:

The Grand Canyon is beautiful. They find a quiet look-out point and watch the sun rise, watch the colors change on the walls of the canyon. Sam thinks about Castiel, remembering the angel telling him that he had once been on a road trip with the angel who made this place, which is just crazy enough to be true. They hike down an old trail along the rim, find a cool dark cave where Dean puts down a blanket, hands Sam some bread and cheese and water from his pack, sits with him in companionable silence as he eats. When Sam's done Dean cleans up after him, starts to get up to move out again but Sam grabs his wrist, pulls him down onto the blanket, and Dean lets Sam kiss him and undress him and fuck into him slow and sweet, just taking his time so that he can show Dean how much this means to him, how good this is. It's lazy and sexy and perfect, and Sam feels stupidly sentimental, doesn't want to spoil the mood by saying something sappy so he says nothing at all, and Dean lets him drape himself all over his brother when they're done, lets Sam rest his head on Dean's chest and stroke slow circles on his belly while Dean plays idly with Sam's hair.

It's the middle of the day, but Sam's feeling so warm and relaxed he drifts off to sleep with the feel of Dean's heart pounding steady and strong against his cheek, under his ear.

When he wakes up Dean's still there, still holding him, and Sam presses his lips against Dean's warm skin before he lifts his head, looks up into Dean's eyes, grasping at his dream as it flits away from his consciousness. Something about bees and a sun-splashed porch on an old Missouri farmstead.

"My purified blood had no effect on you at all, did it?" Sam says. It's been two weeks but he still remembers the feel of Dean's lips gently moving over his, remembers Dean's tongue licking into his mouth, lapping up the blood there.

Dean's eyes are hooded and dark, but Sam's learned to tell the difference between the black-eyed demon thing and Dean's lust-blown normal gaze, and this is definitely the latter.

"None at all," Dean acknowledges. "Can't blame a guy for trying, though."

"So you would've taken the cure," Sam clarifies now. "If it had worked, you would've done it and become human again."

"'Course I would, Sammy," Dean says. "I know it's what you want. And if my heart wasn't so black and evil, I'm sure I'd want it too."

Sam places a soft kiss on Dean's chest, just above his heart.

"Your heart isn't black and evil, Dean," he says softly. "It's just a heart. It just knows what it wants, is all."

Dean smoothes the stress lines on Sam's brow, lets his thumb outline his brother's cheekbones, whisper across his lips.

"Okay, Sammy," he says. "Okay."

For the first time, but probably not for the last, Sam feels sure he's doing the right thing here. Even if Dean has totally embraced this darker version of himself, feels he deserved to become the thing he most hated, has only a vague notion that he should be cured -- it's Sam's belief that Dean will ultimately redeem himself, just because he's Dean. That despite his demon nature, despite all the fucked-up influences of their dysfunctional childhood and everything that's happened to them since -- Dean is still pure of heart, beneath it all. Nothing can change that fundamental fact. Not even this.

This is what Sam knows, with all his heart and soul. This is what Sam believes.

And that's good enough. For now.

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done! Finally! Thank you so much for reading! And please leave a comment -- I live for those!!


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